


The Time Lord of Tamriel

by FomaGranfalloon



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Crossover, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dwarves, Dwemer Ruins, Gen, Post-Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, Pre-Episode: s04e16 The Waters of Mars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:54:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FomaGranfalloon/pseuds/FomaGranfalloon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An elderly Dragonborn is finally starting to accept that the world no longer has use for her when she meets a strange man from the stars.  Calling himself "The Doctor", he has received a message that came across time and space to find him.  Who sent it?  There is only one race of beings that could...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

(For funsies - [Click Here for Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sKZQEH6SFho&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u2bSzip1uWtcvmdkYT_Q7WL))

“Old friend, I think this is the last time I will make this trip,” you say to the gray dragon perched on a low stone wall.

“Krosis, fahdon,” he responds.  “Nuz dovah mindok daar sul los het.”   _(Sorrow, friend.  But I know this day is here.)_ Each word spoken by that ancient voice, like the sound of a heavy stone being dragged across the bones of the world, rumbles your chest in a way that has become so familiar and almost comforting.  In spite of yourself, you realize that you will miss conversing in this way.    

“Paarthurnax, how could you possibly know this would be my last visit?”

“Hin tiid ol dii grah-zeymahziin bo gut nol dii koraav.”   _(Your time as my ally flows far from my sight.)_

“You excel at giving answers that are not answers, you old puzzle-lizard.”

The dragon releases hot air through his mouth, an action that resembles laughter.  “Krosis.  Not all things can be clear to me either, Dovahkiin.”

You smile, and there are several moments of silence.  You are sitting on a large stone across from your comrade.  He towers over you, though his physical presence causes no alarm.  The snow falling around you starts to thicken, and the sky darkens.  Here on the top of the mountain, you can see that a storm is coming.  It is time to take your leave.  You wonder how to say a final good-bye to the ally who helped you slay his own kin all those years ago.  “I am beginning to know how Durnehviir feels.  I have walked Tamriel far longer than necessary.  A guardian who will not die and has outlived her usefulness.”

“Nid, lost onikaan.  You have dovah sos, but you are mortal, Dunmer.  You are not cursed as Durnehviir.  The thu’um of the Dovahkiin, zol mul, will soon be silent.”   _(No, have wisdom.  -dragon blood  -most strong)_

You remember the voices of dragons long dead.  Fierce opponents, with only the cruel instinct to dominate and destroy.  An instinct that surfaces in you occasionally, as you remember how you enslaved Odahviing to serve as your sometime battle-mate.  But as Alduin the World-Eater passed and the dragons were slowly eradicated by your hand, it became harder to always see your actions as righteous.  Were you not, in some way, one of them?  Did you not share the same lust for glory?

Paarthurnax, for his part, attempted to convince members of his kin to work against their natures and discard their need to subjugate all other races.  For years, dragons could be seen wheeling around the Throat of the World from as far away as Riften.  He tried to demonstrate the necessity of changing their merciless ways not just for the sake of their survival, but also in terms of morality.  He failed.

The last dragon to slay was your old unwilling comrade, Odahviing.  He was not surprised when you drew your sword against him, despite oaths you had both taken.  “Nii los un dez, Dovahkiin.”   _(It is our fate, Dragonborn.)_

“I do this not out of malevolence, but out of mercy,” you had said.

“Vonmindoraan,” he replied.   _Incomprehensible_.  It was the last thing he would ever say.

When had you returned home, you ordered your steward to give away your cow and chickens to a nearby farmer.  You no longer summoned your horse, or used illusion magic to bend the will of others to yours.

Yet, an ember flickers briefly inside you now – the blood that covets prestige and triumph.  “Do you think they will write any more songs about me?” you ask.

“Mu nunon lost gein lovaas.  You have curious thoughts,” Paarthurnax replies.   _(We only have one song.)_

“ _The Dragonborn Comes_ was kind of terrible, to be honest.  Perhaps it is best if they do not.”

“Your song is not over.”

“That is not what I meant.  In the taverns, the bards…”  You stop, realizing how undignified you are, prattling on.  As if Paarthurnax had even ever heard the songs about the defeat of Alduin.  “I wonder about my legacy, is all.”

The dragon thinks for a moment, then a sigh escapes him that sounds like wind going through castle walls.  “Legacy or fame?”

You have no answer you are willing to say out loud.

“I thought you were ready to be done, fahdon.  Did you not just say you had outlived…”

“Yes yes, of course.  I am old and diminished.  I do not know what came over me,” you respond.  A cloud goes over the setting sun, and a chill brushes your skin.  Though you had spent a couple centuries in the frigid climate of Skyrim, your Dunmer heritage gives you no natural resistance to the cold.  The frozen stone under you has worsened the bone-deep ache in your legs.  Stiffly, you use your staff to help you stand.

“I will tell you this.  Wuldsetiid los tahrodiis, but I believe you have something left to do.”   _(The vortex of time is turbulent)_

“Is that right?” you respond, stretching your spine.  “And what is that?”

The dragon looks up to the clouds.  “Faal Naubostrun.  It is not entirely clear, but the word I have heard on the wind is Aldolein.”   _(The Storm Comes.)_

“Alduin?!”  Suddenly the creaks in your bones are more easily ignored.  You cast a glance over your shoulder, as if the dread destroyer might have materialized behind you.

“Aldo _lein_ , though it means much the same.  But you, Dovahkiin, are the one who has looked into the Elder Scrolls and seen the expanse of time.  You have just as much knowledge about what that could be.”

“Or who.”

* * *

 

You had given your farewells to your oldest friend, and spent the night in High Hrothgar.  Sleep had come instantly.  Any sorrow you might feel about being too weak to ever visit Paarthunax again had been eclipsed by the struggle of journeying down the mountain.  No, the melancholy would come later, you were sure, when you were alone.

After picking up supplies from the Whiterun markets, you now begin your journey home to Windstad Manor.  Years ago the journey from there to the Throat of the World only used to take you the better part of a day.  But you move slower now.  Rather than cutting across country, you plan your trip to spend the night in the restored Hall of the Vigilant.  Sore from taking the 7,000 Steps yesterday, you amble at a slow pace.

There are surprisingly few people on the road North.  The usual mix of traders, travelers, and patrolmen is nonexistent, and your only company is the occasional butterfly or deer.  Out of habit, you keep glancing up at the sky, but of course, there are no winged creatures swooping down other than a few hawks enjoying wind currents.

As the sun reaches its zenith, you see up ahead the familiar windmill of Loreius Farm.  No, not Loreius Farm any longer, of course.  Old Vantus had sold it long ago, (“Too many odd folk come ‘round here wanting somethin’ or other from me,” he had grumbled.)  He and his wife had retired to somewhere in Cyrodiil.  You wonder if they are still alive.  Probably not.

You find the latest inhabitants to be disagreeable.  The farm had passed through a few hands, but now it belonged to a group of Nords.  They had expanded on it, turning Loreius Farm into a small settlement they called Siben.  They were friendly enough, but never allowed travelers to stay long, nevermind spend the night.  It was an issue of particular annoyance to you because you once owned the land behind theirs.  After Vorstag had gone, you donated Heljarchen Hall back to the township of Dawnstar with the plan that it would be turned into a library, open to everyone.  However, the young Jarl found a loophole in the contract, and sold it to the Nords.  You tried to appeal to the group’s leader, asking him to allow at least part of the Hall that you had built with your own two hands to be allocated for public use.  He politely but firmly declined.

Not wanting to be seen by any of the irksome Nords, you get a cowl of Chameleon out of your bag and put it on your head.  The enchantment allows you to usually pass unseen, so long as you don’t get too close.  Not wanting to make any extra noise, you slide your walking staff into the hooks on your bag and approach Siben.  You hear shouts before you see anything.

“Rokvir, flank them!  You two, with me!”

“Never should have come here!”

“Get the children out!”

You hear the familiar blast sound of a shock spell being thrown, and the boom of it hitting a target.  Smoke suddenly starts billowing upwards from something, though a low hill and the bend in the road prevents you from seeing the source.  Another shock spell gets thrown, and you hear agonized shouting.  Out onto the road scuttles a spider a few feet tall made of yellowy-brown metal.  It clanks towards you, and you instinctively place your hand on the hilt of your sword.  What is a Dwemer maintenance construct doing _here_?

You see a steel arrow strike the spider, but it just glances away.  The mechanical beast throws another shock spell at someone, and you hear a groan.  A Whiterun patrolman appears, swinging his sword wildly at the construct.  You sigh, wondering if the city is ever going to train guards that have a clue what they are doing.

Drawing your sword, you jog up the road as silently as you can and get behind the spider.  Still engaged with the patrolman, it does not see you.  You bring up your weapon and bring it down squarely upon the dynamo core housing.  It collapses to the ground, and you jump away.  “Get back!” you yell to the guard.  A burst of electrical energy erupts from the spider, shocking the too-slow man and bringing him to his knees.  The force of the energy eruption dismembers the construct, and it now lies in motionless pieces on the road.

“S’wit!” you say angrily to the patrolman.  “Have you never dealt with one of these before?  They always…”  You notice that he appears to be on the edge of consciousness.  “Nevermind.  Here.”  You dig a healing potion out of your bag and hold it out to the incompetent guard.

He looks up at you with bleary eyes, blood flowing down his neck from under his helmet.  “Are…are you…”

“Drink this.”  He takes it out of your hand.

“Will you help them?  The children…”

“Of course,” you respond, softening your voice.  “Just rest now.”

Before going around the bend, you quickly check your gear.  You rumble through your bag and bring out your old Amulet of Talos.  “Just in case,” you mutter as you fasten it around your neck.  Sword still drawn, you advance down the road.

The smoke has gotten thicker and darker as you approach the settlement.  It is billowing from the roof of the structure nearest the road – the original Loreius farmhouse.  The thatched roof is ablaze, and one of the walls has collapsed.  You glance inside but see no signs of anyone.  You walk past the leek and potato field and see two patrolmen lying dead amongst the crops.  You get closer to the ring of new buildings, and then you see them.

In the center between all the huts and houses are dozens of Dwarven constructs.  Metal spiders swarm the grounds, aggressively attempting to enter the buildings.  On the balcony of a two-story building across from you, a patrolman is firing arrows at the spiders on the porch below.  They hurl shock spells at him, and he dodges each in turn.  In front of the small hut on your right, three spiders bash the wooden door.  You can hear muffled screams inside.

Deciding the swarm is too large for stealth, you release your thu’um.  “FUS RO DAH!” you shout at the trio of constructs.  They fly backwards, knocking into other spiders.  One smashes against a building and explodes into inanimate parts.  You turn around in time to see a shock bolt heading for your face.  You duck, and with your left hand, release a fire spell at an oncoming spider.  Straightening up, you swing with your sword arm, landing a blow on its leg.  The construct lowers itself to the ground, readying for a jump attack.  You whirl to the side, firing another spell directly into its dynamo core.  “Aim for the housing!” you yell up to the guard.  “The power source!”

With the patrolman raining arrows, you fight your way through the spiders.  You push your body to make movements it has not attempted in years and breathe through muscle resistance.  Minutes are marked with blows, evasions, and strategic spell-casting.  Thus you thin the horde of constructs.  

You run to the door of the hut, pulling off your bag to free yourself for further combat.  “Whoever is in there, now is the chance to come out and flee!  Hurry!”  You hear a latch click, and the door opens.  Inside, you recognize a few of the Nord settlers.  “Get to the road and make for Whiterun.  Tell the Jarl what is happening here!”  Several old men and women come through the doorway, as well as a woman in her twenties carrying a baby.

“The young ones!” she says to you.  “Up at the hall!”

“The spiders got inside the hall?”  You find it hard to believe that the constructs were able to penetrate the doors you had built with security in mind.

“They came _from_ the hall.  They just appeared out of nowhere and…the young ones are trying to fend them off!  Please, my husband…”

“Run to the road, sera.  I will get to the hall.”

A shock bolt hits you in the back and you are thrown forward into the woman and her baby.  You wince, and regain your balance.  Turning around, you shout “IIZ!” freezing the attacking construct, as well as two more behind it.  You bring up your sword, but the wail of the woman behind you makes you stop.

“No!  No…”  She holds the bundle in her arms up to her face and says words to it in a language you don’t recognize.  The blanket is singed black from shock damage.

“Is there a healer?” you ask.  She continues murmuring incomprehensibly to the baby, a tear falling from her eye.  “Sera, is there a healer somewhere in this village?”

“I’m a healer.  Of sorts.”  You glance over your shoulder at the sound of the male voice.  A dark-haired Nord (or perhaps an Imperial - the man-races all sort of look alike to you) is dressed in bizarre attire.

“Attend to the child!” you bark.  You dash back off the porch and strike the first frozen spider with your sword.  The ice that had formed from your thu’um shatters, and with it, the metal construct.  The guard up on the balcony nails the second one with a well-placed arrow.  With your left hand, you throw a single fireball at the third spider.  The ice melts, but the spider is not destroyed.  It launches a jump attack and clatters into your face.  You fall backwards, the construct landing on your skull.  You hear a strange high-pitched noise, and then, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com 
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	2. Chapter 2

(For Funsies - [Click Here for Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oT26-k3NiEI&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u3hPcg0DwS2SDPTO6JNZAL7))

“Alright.  Hey there.”  You are aware that your head hurts.  You slowly lift your eyelids, and the strange healer man comes into focus.  He is leaning over you, looking slightly concerned.  “Thought we might have lost you.”

“No,” you croak, pulling yourself up to a sitting position.  The young guard is standing next to the man, and you are on the ground where the spider took you down.  “I was in no danger of that.”

“Is that so?  And how do you know that?”  He looks over at the guard, bemused.

“Because I do.  Did you help the child?”

“Oh yes,” he responds with a smile.  “Takes more than a little bit of electricity to take out that one.  Hearty constitution, spare ticker.”  He clicks his tongue.

You blink and bring your hand to your head.  “What?  Well, em, good.  Did they make it to the road?”

The guard holds a hand out to you.  “No Dragonborn.  They are in the hut.”

You take his hand, and painfully get to your feet.  “Anyone else left in the village?”

“Everyone else either fled, is up at the hall, or...”

“Right,” you say.  You limp towards the bag you had left in front of the hut.

“The baby needs a few moments before they can travel,” the healer says.

“They may not have a few moments,” you respond.  Out of your bag, you find a large blue bottle, and drink the contents.  “Patrolman...what is your name?”

“Rokvir, ma’am.”

“Rokvir, go in there and escort...”

“No!” shouts the healer, and he jumps in front of the door to the hut.  “I mean, just, hold off for a bit.  They’ll be fine, just leave them be.”

You narrow your eyes and study the man.  He is wearing a long brown cloak that hangs loosely around his rather skinny body.  The blue shirt and pants are of an unrecognizable style that appears to not offer any sort of armored protection, and his brown hair is cut short like a boy’s.  “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, and you’re wasting time.”

“Rokvir, stay here and guard this healer and the civilians inside.  Leave as soon as she is well enough to travel.”

“Yes Dragonborn.”

You pick up your pack and double check that nothing is broken.  You slide your staff out from its rings and hold it out to the healer.  “You don’t appear to have a weapon.  Here.”

“Nah, won’t be necessary.  Rocky here can handle things, can’t he?”  The healer thumps Rokvir on the back.  Rokvir glares, but says nothing.

“Thick-skulled Nord, take the weapon!”  You plant the staff on the ground for emphasis.

“I’m not a Nord.  Hm, not used to people saying ‘no’ to you, are you?” The man’s voice rises and falls in a manner that reminds you of a bard attempting to entertain at the Winking Skeever.  You sigh and drop the staff at his feet.  He leans to your ear, “I’m not either, to be honest.”  You hike the bag onto your back and start to walk up the path towards Heljarchen Hall.  “Goin alone?”

“It’s safer that way,” you say through gritted teeth.

Up on the hill, you see your old home.  Before you reach it, you must pass two small structures on either side of the path.  You draw your sword and cast a quick shield spell in anticipation of trouble.  Coming up on the first building, you look in the window.  No Nords or metal spiders can be seen.  You continue up the path, and walk towards the door of the second structure.  You put your hand on the knob when you hear the sound of metal on rock.

Rolling down the hill from Heljarchen, you see nine metal spheres coming towards you.  They look to be about hip-height, and puffs of steam trail behind each one as they pick up speed.  “By Azura,” you mutter.  You crouch behind a bush, hoping to be able to sneak attack the first Dwarven sphere.  At the very least, you would need to fend them off long enough for the people left in Siben to get to safety.

The first construct rolls up almost parallel to you.  Right as you are about to leap out and attack, you hear the peculiar high-pitched noise again.  The sphere halts, and the outer layer splits in two.  The metal-man inside springs out, looking for the source of the sound.  The spheres behind immediately make haste to join the battle.  “Oh aren’t you _beautiful_!” the strange healer says.  He steps out from the behind the structure down the road.  He is holding some sort of thin rod with a blue glow on the end.

You jump onto the first sphere man, swinging your sword.  Surprised by your attack, it rolls backwards, stunned.  Steam billows out of its arm where your sword made contact.

“Naw, aw, why’d you do that?  You dented it!” the man says.  He runs up to you, waving his device in the direction of the sphere.  “Look at that, oh you’re just magnificent!”

“Get back, you madman!” you growl.

He smiles, looking down at the thing in his hand.

The spheres from up the path come to and the metal-men all emerge.  The one nearest you swings his arm and you duck.  Four in the back start to launch darts at you and the healer.

At that instant, a phenomenon that has happened at certain points throughout your entire adult life occurs.  You see a flash and you are frozen.  Strange letters and markings wheel before your eyes, then you see in rapid succession the actions of you and the healer.  Five versions of you in combat, desperately trying to protect the insane man.  And in every single one, he is mortally wounded.  A dazzling golden light bursts out of his body, momentarily blinding you, followed by a jumble of words and concepts you do not understand.  These are the things that can or will be.  Different times, different ways it will go.  He dies and you fail to stop them from continuing down the path.  No, wait.  A sixth version of you grabs his hand and makes for the house.  You don’t see how it ends, and you know that is the choice you must make.  The images and voices disappear and you have returned to the danger of the present.

You take the man’s hand and at the same time, you both exclaim, “Run!”  Darts from the spheres’ crossbows whiz by your heads as you speed towards the building down the path.  The man flings open the door and dashes inside.  Before he can pull you in, you break your hold and shut the door on him.

“Wait...” he protests.

“Stay put, fetcher!”  You run back out to the path, drawing the fire of the spheres.  You inhale, concentrating on your most powerful thu’um.  “STRUN BAH QO!”  The skies darken, and clouds form out of nothingness.  Bolts of lightning begin to shoot to the ground, striking the spheres.  With the very air dealing damage to your enemies, you quickly study the surroundings.

At your peak, your preferred fighting method was one of quick misdirection.  Get in, land a hard hit, then not be where they expect when they retaliate.  It required intense focus and study of all the myriad creatures in Skyrim.  The perennial question - ‘What is this particular type of opponent likely to do next?’  After years of experience, it became second nature, a dance you knew the steps to in your sleep.  There is a rhythm to any fight, and you were in tune to it more than most.  However, today marks the first time in years you’ve been in proper combat.  You were lucky to have aid against the spiders, but you worry if your neglected reflexes are up to the task of this bigger, tougher variety of Dwemer construct.  The most strenuous battle for you of late has been the odd tussle with a basement rat or overconfident mudcrab.  You decide that instead of engaging in a one-on-nine fight, your best bet is to get to an easily defendable position and let the storm do most of the work.

There, up the path a bit, a ladder to the roof of a shack.  Of course, the band of metal men are between you and it.  Can you make it?  

The first sphere to come for a melee attack is the one you hit earlier.  You swing your sword to the side and land a strike on its elbow joint near where you damaged it before.  The force of the blow manages to break the weakened metal and the arm drops uselessly to the ground.  Steam shoots out of the empty shoulder socket, throwing the sphere momentarily off-balance.  Seizing the advantage, you throw a frostbite spell into its arm cavity.  Externally, constructs are immune to the cold, but you aim for the water vapor.  You struggle to maintain the spell with your left hand while fending off an attack from another sphere with your right.  But after a few more seconds, your gamble pays off and the steam powering the first sphere freezes solid.  The construct grinds to a halt, then topples over into the second.

You duck behind a third sphere as the rear guard starts shooting more darts at you.  They bounce off the metal body and you run for an opening between two other constructs.  One of them grabs your right forearm and holds tight.  You try to pull away, but its grip is strong.  Another looms over you, bladed arm held high, ready to bring it down on your head.  

There’s a flexing in the air, a pulse your ears and the hairs on your skin can sense.  Instinctively, you thrust your left hand out to touch the chestplate of the construct in front of you.  Almost immediately after, it is struck by lightning from the storm, and your body conducts the charge into the other sphere holding your arm.  You are momentarily blinded, but your captor releases you and you leap to the side, dodging the falling body of the stricken combatant.  

As your vision starts to come back, you sprint towards the ladder.  Darts fly by and you can hear one of the spheres giving chase.  You dare not look back to see how close it is.  Your heart thumps wildly in your chest harder than the bag against your back.  Was there always so much running?  You make it to the ladder and vault onto the second rung.  As you start to climb, you feel metal chop at your shoulder.  You grit your teeth and ignore it, scrambling up as fast as you can.

Once on the roof, you set aside your sword and begin to pull up the ladder.  However, you quickly realize it isn’t necessary.  The construct rolls toward the first rung, but cannot gain the foothold.  It bumps into the wooden structure, its spherical base ineffectual.  In relief and surprise, you let out a laugh that gets harder as you watch it try again and again to climb after you.  

“Thought the old crone would be an easy target, eh?  Did not expect me to be such a fast grandma-aaaaah RUTH!”   _(Curses/damn!)_  A hail of darts is fired towards you and you jump back from the edge.  You throw yourself down onto your stomach to avoid the projectiles.  It knocks the breath out of you a bit, and you gasp for air.  It sheepishly crosses your mind that you hope the healer didn’t see that undignified moment out a window.

As the seconds tick by into minutes, the arrows soaring over your head dwindle to nothing.  You no longer hear the sphere below you clattering into the ladder.  You crawl to the edge of the roof and look down.  Indeed, the lightning from your thu’um has defeated them all.

You retrieve your sword and climb down from the roof.  A slight smile plays on your lips and you walk over to the pile of your vanquished foes.  Thunder still rolls, the last rumbles of the storm.  Above the sound of the sky, you can hear the blood pumping in your veins.  The dovah stros has been dormant in you, but is not yet dead.  The pride of power bubbles up, and it makes you feel younger.  You stand straighter, and look above you.  As quickly as they formed, the clouds dissipate.

“You’re wounded, soldier,” says the healer behind you.

You look down, and see that your sword arm is caked in blood and Dwemer oil.  “As I should be,” you mutter.  The heat of battle made it so that you could push aside the pain when that construct sliced your shoulder.  But now, an ache begins.

The man walks up next to you, and gently kicks one of the disconnected spheres.  It rolls off into the grass.  “Tin cans on wheels.  Don’t do stairs.”  He bends down to examine one of the other pieces.  He pulls out his strange object again, and it makes more sounds.  

Gingerly, you remove your bag and look to see if you have any more potions.  You used to carry a pack filled to the brim with alchemy ingredients, elixirs, and charms.  Anything that might be remotely useful when fighting dragons or clearing vampire nests.  But nowadays you tend to travel lightly.  You glance over at the man.  “Not much of a healer, are you?”  He ignores you.

You close your eyes, trying to summon a healing spell, but your magicka pool is not what it used to be.  After freezing that first construct, it will be some time before you can heal yourself with your own biological energy.

“You didn’t have to destroy them, you know.”

You open your eyes and look down at the man.  “Wait, what?”

“They’re automatons.  Have no more free will than a carriage.  They were just doing what they’re programmed to do.”  He removes one of the soul gems, and puts it in his pocket.

“Pro-grammed?”  You are quickly losing patience for his nonsense.  With your good arm, you remove your hood and start to wrap it around your bleeding shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be surprised.  Primitive planet.”  He stands up and looks at you.  “You’re just a soldier, doing what soldiers do.”

“I am in no army,” you say.

Seeing that you are having trouble tying the fabric onto your shoulder, the man takes the ends and works to make a bandage.  “Young Rocky back there seems to treat you like a commanding officer.  Hopped right to it when you told him what for.”

“People tend to live longer when they do what I say.”  You sharply inhale breath when the man jostles the wound.  “I have proven myself, have a reputation of…”

“So I heard.  The ‘Dragonborn’, eh?  More of a title than a name.”

You slap his hands off your shoulder.  “N’wah!   _You_ are the one who stupidly came up here!  I had to protect the villagers down below.  And by following me, I had to save your fool hide as well.”

“You don’t know that.  I was about to…”

“Yes, actually, I do know.  There is no scenario in which you wave that stupid magic wand around at those Dwemer spheres and do not die.  You perish every time.”

For a brief moment, curiosity flickers across his face, but it is quickly gone.  Once again, he grabs the ends of your hood to finish tying the bandage.  “It’s not a magic wand.  It’s a sonic screwdriver.”

“You know, it sounds like you are speaking in the common tongue, but it keeps coming out as complete babble.  Are you an avatar of Sheogorath?”

“No.  Though I do like cheese.”

“What?”

He finishes tying the bandage, then pulls out his device.  With a flourish, it extends longer, and the end glows blue.  It makes that odd sound.  “This is a sonic screwdriver.  If you had come with me into the house, I could have used it to deactivate those machines.  I just needed a few more seconds to find the right frequency…”  You shake your head, and shoulder your bag on your good arm.  You start to walk away up towards the hall, but the man grabs your hand.  “No, listen.  I’m trying to tell you that I can use _this_ thing to stop _those_ things, and get them to do what I want instead.”

You pause and turn around to face him.  “It’s a control rod?  You found one of them?”

“I…uh…yes!  Sort of.  It’s a…universal control rod, really.  You just have to, erm, well…”

“It uses sound.  Like other Dwemer technology.  You just have to find the right tonal resonation.”

“Blimey, you know ‘tonal resonation’, but not ‘screwdriver’?”

You sigh.  “Your point?”

“Yes yes the point is, soldier, maybe don’t kill everything you come across, yeah?  There are other ways of doing things.”

You turn around back towards the hall.  “Have it your way.  My sword arm will be no good for awhile.”

The two of you walk up the path in silence until you get to a third settlement shack.  “Wait,” you say.  “I need to go in and look for survivors.”  You pull open the door and gasp.  “What in Oblivion has happened here?”

The small shabby house of two rooms appears to be in the middle of a transformation.  Much of the original wooden furniture has been smashed or pushed out to the edges of the room.  Large Dwarven pipes are scattered across the floor.  A pipe port has been partially installed into the interior wall, and small puffs of steam emanate from the opening.  The floorboards around it have been ripped up, and the pipe goes into the ground.  Two Dwemer spiders lay dead on the floor.

“This is what I do not understand,” you say, walking into the house.  “Dwemer constructs do not leave their homes.  They are like territorial beasts.  They guard Dwarven ruins, but never roam beyond the borders.”

“So something has caused them to change their habits,” the man says.  He takes out his sonic screwdriver and runs it near the pipe port.  “This goes down _deep_.”

You pocket the soul gem from one of the spiders.  “It’s like they were turning this villager’s house into a Dwarven building.  But why?”

“Dunno.”  He looks at you intently and gestures with the screwdriver.  “Maybe someone else has their control rod now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com 
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	3. Chapter 3

 

The two of you approach Heljarchen Hall.  No rampaging spiders or spheres can be seen, but there is a crumple of robe fabric on the lawn.  You get closer, and the man next to you exhales the words, “Oh no.”  He runs to the body, kneeling on the ground and cradling the head in his arms.  You can see that it’s one of the Siben villagers, a young man from the looks of it.  Blood is obscuring much of his face.  Dismembered parts from two Dwarven spheres surround him.  You keep a respectful distance and watch for any danger while the man murmurs words in an unknown language to the deceased.

After a minute, you approach.  “I’m sorry sera, but we should get in there and help if you don’t want to lose more of your friends.”

“I didn’t know him.”

“What?”

“He wasn’t one of my friends.”  He sniffs and clears his throat.  In a steadier voice, he says, “You’re…you’re right.  We should get in there.”

You try the front door, but it is barred from the other side.  “There’s another entrance,” you say.

As you walk around the large building, past a small garden, you impulsively look to the ground near the tree line.  Still standing, though looking a little worse for wear, is a small gravestone.  As he walks past, the man reads aloud, “Here lies Vorstag.  Kril kendov ahmul do Dovahkiin.”

From memory, you recite, “Aal ok sil rovaan Sovngarde mahfaeraak.”  The healer looks at you with a raised eyebrow.  “He used to live here,” you say tightly.

Wooden steps lead up to a second-story porch.  You both take them, and walk to the door.  “Let me go first,” you say.  Crouching down into a stealth position, you slowly turn the handle.

A line of sunlight from the opened door shoots across the floor.  You noiselessly flit onto the upper landing.  The hallway here, at the very least, is abandoned.  You try to use your Aura Whisper thu’um to search for signs of life, but your voice has not yet fully returned.  You cough, and motion for the healer to follow you. 

You go around the corner.  Still no mechanical beasts or people.  You look to where your steward’s bed used to be up against the wall.  The Nords now had a desk and a few bookshelves in the space, but you can see notches in the wood floor from where the bedposts were.  They could not erase your existence entirely.  You quietly make your way to the banister overlooking the great room on the ground floor.

Down below, a dozen or so Dwemer spiders are busy at work.  Two are dragging pieces of a chair and throwing it onto a pile of detritus in the entry hall.  You can see the remains of what used to be tables, lanterns, and other miscellaneous furniture all strewn haphazardly in the small room, blocking the front door.  Several spiders are installing a large steam vent into the center of the room where the fireplace used to be.  Still more are hauling pipes to ports on the East and West walls.  One construct is in the process of trying to smash the alchemy table you had built, and without thinking, you put your hand on your sword, wincing.

Behind you, the healer gently taps your good shoulder, and says in a low voice, “No, let me do it this time.”  He takes out his sonic screwdriver, and presses the button.  Instantly, the construction work stops, and the spiders all start moving around in a frenzy, trying to find the interloper.  “I’ve just got to attenuate the…”

One spider starts going up the stairs.  “You better hurry!” you whisper.

“Come on, come on…”

The spider reaches the landing, and scuttles up and over the enchanting bench, searching.  From there, it easily spots you.  “Too late!” you say.  It hops to the floor, then lowers itself for a jump attack.  You stand up straight and breathe in quickly, hoping your voice has returned.  “TIID KLO UL!”  The shout sweeps out from your throat, and the spiders all move as if through honey.  Hoping this will give the healer time to figure out…whatever it is he has to figure out, you walk towards the crouching spider.  It lifts up from the floor slowly, and as it floats by, you easily sidestep it and remove the soul gem from it’s housing.  “Cheers, friend,” you say as you wave the soul gem at the flying spider.  

“Almost there,” says the healer.

Seeing where the construct will eventually land, you hurry towards the enchanting bench and fetch a steel shield that was left on top.  “Healer, step back!” you warn.

He continues his work with the screwdriver.  “Just a tick!” he responds.

With little time left, you move back towards the man, passing the now descending Dwemer spider.  “Heavy-footed Nord,” you say, as you get in front of the healer with the shield raised.

“Hah, got it!” he cries, his voice high.

The effect of your thu’um ends, and the construct clatters into your shield.  From the force of the impact, you fall back onto the healer who grabs your waist and keeps you from going all the way to the floor.  The metal parts fly to pieces around you.  The remaining constructs on the ground level all stand to attention, waiting for a command.  “Time in!” calls the healer.

You drop the shield and it makes a loud metallic clang.  When the noise dies off, the healer gently stands you on your feet.  You groan, and grab your shoulder.

Looking at you with a combination of disquiet and wonder, the man asks, “You can change the speed of time?”

“Uh, I…yes briefly,” you say.

“You can change the speed of time,” the man repeats, this time in a slightly more appreciative tone.

You roll your eyes, and look down at the Dwemer spiders.  “So what are you going to do with them?”

“I’ve got a TARDIS who would  _ love _ to meet you.”

“What?”

“Okay-uh!” he shouts to the constructs, jumping up and waving his screwdriver.  “Attention everyone!  I’m the new master of the manor!  The Master?  No, Manor...Lord and I need you all to immediately stop building... whatever it is you’ve been building.”  The spiders continue to stand motionless.

“I think they already have,” you say.

“Oh, right.”

You leave his side and go down the stairs to the lower floor.  “I think we should check for your people.  They might be hiding in the library tower or the storage room at the back.”

In their industrious haste, the spiders had indeed blocked up the entrances to all the other rooms on the ground floor.  As you start pulling away pipe parts and wood from the library door, you can hear the screwdriver make its sound.  The spiders go back into action, this time clearing the debris.  “Hello, can you hear me?” you shout through the door.  “The spiders are under control.  We are coming to help.”  You do not hear a response from the library. 

The man quickly descends down the stairs, his feet a blur of red, and goes to the doors of your old bedroom.  “Anyone here?  We’re working on getting you out!”

You point towards the North side of the house.  “There’s another room back there.” 

The healer dashes to the back and bangs on the wall.  “Hello!  Shout if you can hear my voice!”  You do not hear anything over the sound of the spiders clanking around, but he says, “I think there’s someone in here.  We’ll get you out.  Just hold on!”  The man starts pulling wood and Dwarven metal away from the double doors.  You run over to help.

After a few minutes, the doors are finally clear, and you fling them open.  The storage room is apparently still being used for that, as many of the chests and crates are currently present.  In a corner, you can see the body of a young adult, or maybe teen Nord, slouched against the wall.  The man rushes to her side and kneels down.

“Is there no one else?” you ask.  Motion on the left side of the room catches your eye, and you look over.  The lid to one of the chests is moving.  You take out your sword, and walk over to it. 

“Hey, hey, c’mon.  Wake up,” says the man in a low voice to the young Nord.

You slide the tip of your blade into the opening of the chest, and fling it back.  A flaxen-haired boy of no more than five or six years old blinks at you from inside.  He is hugging his knees.  You quickly sheathe your sword.  “Hello child.  It is over now, you can come out.”  The boy does not speak or move.  “Did you hide in here when the spiders came?”  He nods.  “Are any of your friends hiding here, too?”  He nods again.  “Do you want to help me find them?” you ask, holding your hand out.  He recoils from your hand and holds his legs tighter.  You drop your hand and sigh.  “Whelp,” you say dismissively under your breath.

“Oi,” says the man.  You look over at him, and he is glowering at you with a dark-eyed stare that could fix Molag Bal.  “Do not call him that again.”

“Is this one yours?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.  You look back down at the boy.  “Pup, you need to be stronger than this if you want to survive.  When your mother does not come back in time, when your Da is not strong enough to save you...”

“Enough,” says the man.  He gently lowers the Nord girl’s head to the ground, then stands.  He walks over to the chest and bends down to the child’s height.  “Hey little one.  The monsters have stopped.  Are you scared?”  The boy nods. 

As the healer talks in soothing tones, you walk over to a crate and open it.  You once kept pallets of extra magicka and healing potions here, but they are long since gone.  Instead, you find a mess of papers and other ephemera. 

“Well,” the man says.  “I think it was very smart of you to hide in here.  Very smart indeed.”  The boy smiles.  “You don’t have to come out yet if you don’t want to, but I need to help your friends in case any of them are hurt, do you understand?”  The boy nods.  “It would be a big help if you could point to where they are.”  The boy stands up inside the chest, and points at a long strongbox on the other side of the room.  “Thank you.  You’re being very brave.” 

The healer stands and walks over to the strong box.  You move to the next crate, checking for healing elixirs or alchemy ingredients.  “Is the girl alive?” you ask.

“Barely,” he responds.  “But I can’t do anything for her here.” 

He opens the box, and another boy sits straight up.  “Teacher said not to come out until he said it was okay.  You are not the Teacher.”

“You’re right about that.  Where is your Teacher?” 

“He left when the noise started.”

“Coward,” you mutter, shutting the lid on the crate.  “The garden outside had some blue mountain flowers.  I can make a few healing potions with them on the alchemy table in the great room.”

The man nods without looking at you.  “I’ll check the other rooms.”  He lightens his voice again.  “We’re gonna look for your Teacher, okay?”

You quickly leave the room and make for the front of the building.  The spiders have cleared the door to the library and are nearly done with the entrance to your one-time bedroom.  You turn and go up the stairs to head for the back exit.

“Help us!” you hear from the bedroom.

You start to go back down the stairs, but the man appears from behind the fireplace.  “No, no don’t.  Go get the flowers.  These are not your people.”

“You got that right.  They are  _ not _ ,” you agree, pointedly.

The healer clenches his jaw, and pulls at a broken table.  You walk to the back door, and exit into the sunshine.

* * *

Standing at the stone table, you grind wheat stalks with a mortar and pestle.  Behind you, the Nords are talking in hushed tones amongst themselves.  All told, there are five children and a couple of adolescents.  When the spiders had finally cleared the doors, the healer found that the room was being used as a classroom, and the young ones had been locked in by their teacher, the dead Nord on the front lawn.

They retrieved an unbroken table from the entry hall and set it up in the great room.  The healer carried the unconscious girl from the storage room and laid her on the table.  The man seemed particularly worried about her.  Her heart beat wasn’t doing something it should, according to him, though when you took her pulse, it seemed normal to you.  Slow, but definitely present.

Deciding there is not quite enough wheat for the mixture, you remove the last couple stalks from your bag and add it to the bowl.  You grind at a methodical and even pace, though you can feel eyes on your back, hoping you will hurry. “Who are you?” a girl’s voice asks.  You glance over your shoulder, to see a brunette girl of maybe eight or nine years peering up at the healer.

“I’m the Doctor,” he says.

“Doctor?” says the girl.

“Means, ‘Healer’.”

“More of a title than a name,” you say, turning back to your work.  “Hot water.” 

The male adolescent, Finn, goes to the fireplace and picks up a steaming iron pot.  “Here, ma’am,” he says, placing it on the alchemy table. 

You look inside.  “Pour some of the water out.  Should be only a quarter full.”  The Nord takes it away.

“Where did the spiders come from?” the Doctor asks the children.

“Below.”

“Down.”

“Below what?” asks the Doctor.

“Under the hall,” says the brunette girl.

You drop the pestle on the table.  Everyone looks at you.  “Oh Azura,” you say faintly.  The Doctor raises an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.  “The basement.”

“How did they get in the basement?” asks the Doctor.

“No, they would have come _from_ the basement.  This hall, I built it…”  You walk to the back where the trapdoor to the basement is, but there is a broken bookshelf over it.  “Doctor, you might want to order the spiders to clear the debris from here.”  He comes over next to you.  You point at the floor.  “Heljarchen Hall is built right over the top of a giant Dwemer cavern system.  Blackreach.”  The Doctor does not look at you, but pushes the button on his screwdriver.  The spiders snap to action.  “I never thought, when I built it…”

“Finn’s back with your water,” says the Doctor.  He turns and goes back to the injured girl.

“They never used to leave the ruins.  It was safe!”  He ignores you.  Guilt threatens to overrun your thoughts, so you force yourself to focus on the immediate practical issues instead.  

There are plenty of other dwellings and buildings over the area of Blackreach.  As you return to your table, you wonder if all the other places are being invaded as well.  “We must send word to the jarls of Whiterun and Dawnstar.  Entire holds may be in danger.”  The Doctor does not answer, apparently uninterested in the safety of other towns.  You pour the powdered wheat into the hot water, and stir with a wooden spoon.  “I will go to Dawnstar.  You should all go to Whiterun.  The walls will keep you safe.”

“Will they?” asks Finn.

You and the Doctor exchange a look.  “Of course,” he says.

The little blond boy walks up to the Doctor and pulls on his sleeve.  The Doctor bends down to hear the child’s whisper, then looks at the girl on the table.  “I don’t know,” he says.  He takes out his sonic and holds it over her face.  “Soldier, I think she’s running out of time.”

You nod.  Though it would be better to let it steep awhile longer, you do not have much of a choice.  You pick up the retort and begin swirling the blue mountain flower oil around at the bottom.  Continuing the agitation with your left hand, you slowly pour the wheat water into the glass container.  “Sit her up,” you say. 

The Doctor props her up against his chest and says unrecognizable words to her in a low, reassuring voice.  Finn holds her long snowberry-blonde hair out of her face.  You open her mouth and pour in a small amount of the healing potion.  She gurgles and it all comes right back out.  The Doctor gently massages her throat and says, “Try again.”  You do, and some of the liquid finally manages to make it down. 

As soon as the last drop is gone, her body seizes.  She begins convulsing wildly and making noises in her throat.  “Is that normal?” shouts the Doctor.  You shake your head.  “Finn, take the other children to the back room.”  

Finn just dumbly stares at the girl, gripping the end of her hair.  “Did you hear him, boy?  Do it!” you command.  He nods and lets go, shepherding the young ones out of the great room.  The brunette girl can be heard crying until the doors shut.

The Doctor runs his screwdriver over her body.  “Did you poison her?”

“No!  Of course not!  I made the same healing potion I always make.  Maybe she has an allergy, or…”

“Not compatible with her biology.”

“What?”

“If I'm right, she’s only part-Nord.  I have to get her to the TARDIS somehow.”  The Doctor tries to scoop her up in a bridal carry, but she is thrashing too hard.  He struggles to pick her up again, but it is too difficult to get a grip.

“Doctor, stop!”  You place your hand on her forehead and close your eyes, focusing on your replenished magicka.  You channel everything you’ve got through your fingers, casting your healing spell.  The energy surrounds her entire body in a twinkling light, washing away the unseen damage to her insides.  Her muscles relax, and as the spell fades, her breathing starts returning to normal.

The Doctor lays her back down on the table, and lowers his ear to her chest.  He grins in relief at you.  “Right as rain.” 

You hear a banging at the front door.  A muffled voice is yelling outside.  You go for your sword, and remember that you still have yet to get around to healing your shoulder.  You walk to the entry room, and make your way through the path the spiders had made.  A fist bangs the door again, and you can hear a man shout, “Dragonborn!”

“Be with you shortly,” you say, as you pull a wooden beam off the door.  You open it, and Rokvir is on the front step in a battle stance, shield and sword drawn.

“Stand down, Patrolman,” you say. 

He straightens up, and sheaths his sword.  “What’s happening?  No one has come down from the hall and…”

You hold up your hand.  “Where are the woman and baby you were supposed to protect?”

“One of the men in my detail came from the road.  Said  _ you _ had cured his wounds, Dragonborn.  He is escorting them South now.”  He looks down.  “I gave her your staff to lean on.  Make her journey easier.  I…I hope that’s all right.”

A tiny smile steals across your face.  “Yes Rokvir, I suppose I can live with that.” 

He looks back up at you.  “I thought you might need some help.”

You nod.  “You will go with the children to Whiterun.  Come in.”  You step aside and let him enter.

“Shor’s blood,” Rokvir mutters as he sees the mess in the hall.

“Rocky!” shouts the Doctor.  “And look who’s awake.”  The adolescent girl has sat up on the table, and is drinking water.  The other children have surrounded her and are talking excitedly.  Finn is holding her hand.

You explain to Rokvir the situation with Blackreach, and he agrees to alert his superior officers.  The Doctor wants to give the girl a few minutes to rest before they make for the road.

You meander over to the library tower door.  Opening it, you see that all your shelves are still in place, but most of the books are gone.  You had taken a few important tomes with you to Windstad Manor, of course, but the rest you had left behind.  Now, the shelves are stocked mostly with potions, and a few new books displaying incomprehensible titles.  “This was meant to be a library,” you say to yourself.

“Still is,” says the Doctor behind you.

You look back at him.  “Right, six books on nonsense, and dozens of elixirs labeled with circles rather than words.  Definitely a library.”

He walks up next to you and pulls out a book.  “This isn’t nonsense!  This is the history of Alzarius.”  He flips the pages of the book, and you hear whispers. 

“Is that so?” you say, deciding to play along.  You point at a bottle with orange liquid.  “And what is that?”

He puts the book back on the shelf.  “That is quite clearly language serum.  Some of this, and you’ll be able to communicate with the mathematicians of Logopolis.  You’ll also know advanced fifth-dimension calculus, but that’s just a side effect.”

“Of course,” you say, suppressing a smile.  “None of them are healing potions, I suppose.”

“No,” he says, the playfulness leaving his voice.  “What you did earlier, with the biological homeostasis energy transfer…”

“The what?”

“Your…regeneration energy.  How you healed that girl.  Can you do that whenever you want?”

“Yes, well, sort of.  I mean, the same way I can use my energy to throw fireballs or create light.  Eventually I run out and have to wait awhile until my body…”  The Doctor has taken out his screwdriver and is waving it in front of you.  “What are you doing?  Control rods will not work on me.”

“You definitely are a dark elf, with a little splash of something else.”

“Dragon.  What does this have to do with spell throwing?  I mean, I know you Nords are suspicious of magic, but…”

“Told you, I’m not a Nord.”  He turns off his screwdriver and puts it back in his pocket.  He shakes his head as if to get rid of a thought.  “Nevermind.  I think a better question is, why the hell didn’t you just do that in the first place, instead of taking all that time making a potion?”

“Potions are usually more effective than my meager healing spell.  I am not an Altmer or Breton.  I am not some master mage.”

“Doctor,” says Finn, coming to the library door.  “We’re ready to go.”

“All right!” he says, looking at the boy.  “On to safe harbors!”  Finn nods, and goes back to the great room.  “And you?”

“Oh, I will deal with the basement.  And send word to Dawnstar.  Then, presumably, try to figure out why Dwemer creations are coming out of Blackreach.”

“Alone?”

“Safer that way.”

The Doctor smiles, and says in a rough voice, “Yeaaah.  I’ll just get in your way.”

“Definitely.  Go be with your people.”

“Hm, yes.  I should go.”

The children come out of the classroom with outer robes and furs for the walk to Whiterun.  Finn fetches the steel shield from the second floor and straps it to his back.  The Doctor buttons up his brown cloak, and pats Rokvir on the back.  “Ready Rocky?”

Rokvir looks at you and shakes his head.  You smirk and nod.  “Look after them, Patrolman.  That one is liable to try to make friends with a frost giant.”

“Yes, Dragonborn.”

The children and Rokvir go out the front door.  The Doctor salutes you in a mocking manner.  “So long, soldier.”  He whirls around, his cloak flapping up behind him.

You shake your head.  “S’wit.”  The door closes and you are alone.

Rather than heading straight to the basement, you find yourself in the classroom.  You certainly did not intend to go in here, but you could not help yourself.  Over on the left side of the room, where the bed you shared with Vorstag once stood, there are several small desks and tables with chairs arranged around them.  You close your eyes and try to remember exactly how it looked, but your memory fails.  It smells too different.  It was too long ago.

There is a large lectern on the right, with shelves mounted on either side.  You walk over and run your hand along the far wall.  Here is where his little bed stood, with a chest on the end for his treasures and secrets.  That corner there is where his pet slept (“Ma, look what followed me home!  Could I keep him?”  A  _ skeever _ ?  Really?)  The corner is now occupied by a crate, and you open it.  Inside are the usual playthings for children – a few dolls, a small puzzle cube, a stuffed mammoth.  Down at the bottom is a tiny toy sword.  You pull it out, and your breath catches in your throat.  Made of a sandy-blond wood, it looks just like his used to.

He did not crave the same things you did.  He had no need to be thought of as brave, no desire to earn glory in battle.  You had given him that pretend weapon to try to foster a spark, see something of yourself in him.  Vorstag urged patience, but you had little.  You tried to teach him proper grip, how to swing.  However, his interests were instead in catching butterflies and examining plants.  A budding little alchemist.

It was your fault, of course.  If you had not such a need for prestige, such a talent for triumph...

You drop the sword in the box and slam shut the lid.  You dash out of the room and close the door behind you.  It feels as if your throat is closing too, like that poor Nord girl when she drank your potion.  The sooner you leave, the better.

Walking to the rear of the hall, you see that the spiders have cleared the floor.  You open the trapdoor to the basement, and peer down into the rooms below.  The Dwemer constructs are loudly continuing their work of transforming the place into a dwelling more fit for their old masters.  You kneel down, close your eyes, and prepare to throw your fireball spell.

“Oh, I hate when builders come in and start making a racket at all hours of the day.”  Your eyes fly open and see the Doctor crouching next to you.  “Really inconsiderate.”  The spiders notice your presence, and switch to attack mode.  The Doctor shakes his finger at them and activates his screwdriver.  “Uh ah.  I think not.”  The constructs stop and stand still.  The Doctor looks over at you with a grin. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, unable to suppress your nascent gladness at seeing the strange man.

“Oh Rocky can handle a short walk.  Let’s go meet the new neighbours!”  He jumps through the opening down to the floor below. 

“There is a ladder, you know.” 

Not bothering to respond to you, the Doctor picks something up off a table, and runs into the second room.  “You put a forge in your basement?”

You hop down from the bottom rung.  “Yes.  What of it?”

“What did you do for ventilation?”

“That…is a good question.”  You look around the first room.  The Siben Nords had apparently been using this room for food storage.  In their activities, the spiders had upturned a container of fruit.  The sound of the Doctor taking a bite of something greets you as you walk into the second room. 

The Doctor is standing near a large hole in the floor at the back left corner.  “Ah, this awful.  Why do I always think I like apples?”  He sticks his tongue out and throws the fruit to you.  “Bananas.  Don’t s’pose you’d have any of those?  Nah, wrong climate.”  He bends down, removes a pair of black spectacles from his pocket, and puts them on his face.  “This is where they came through.  What’d you say was down there?”

“Blackreach,” you say, coming to the Doctor’s side.  “Large Dwarven tunnel system linking their cities together.  It goes for miles and miles.”

The Doctor lowers his head down into the abyss.  “Well, can’t see any of it from here.  Looks like the inside of a pipe.”

“They probably needed to build a pipe system to travel through.  If I am right, I stupidly built this hall right near the Silent City.  These pipes might connect to that.”

The Doctor brings his head back up.  “Oooh the ‘Silent City’,” he says, his voice going gravelly.  “I do love a name that paints a picture.”

“Can you order the spiders to knock these pipes down?  Prevent more from coming through?”

“Yeah, but that’s just a temporary solution.  They could build it right up again, I would think.”  He bends back down into the pipe, and this time his entire torso goes through.  You can hear the sound of his screwdriver echoing through the metal.  Then, his voice reverberates back to you, “We have to go down there and stop whatever is making them do this in the first place.”

“Doctor, as much as I would love a romp through Falmer-infested caverns, I need to warn the Jarl of Dawnstar.  All those other entrances, there could be more of them coming through at Alftand or the Tower of Mzark…”

“Hang on, I can see something ahead.”  His legs and feet disappear into the darkness.  You can hear him crawling away, then silence.

You wait a few moments, rotating the discarded green fruit around in your hand.  You take a bite.  “This apple tastes just fine.”  You swallow, then lower your head into the opening.  “Doctor?” you call, your voice echoing away from you.  “What did you find?  Doctor?”  You hear a cry, then a loud bang.  In the confined space, it practically deafens you.  Clapping a hand over your ears, you shout, “Doctor?!”  You cannot hear any response over the sound of the ringing in your head. 

Quickly casting a candlelight spell, you crawl into the pipe.  It leads down and North at a gradual angle, but you can see a dead end up ahead.  There is no sign of the Doctor.  “Fool of a man,” you mutter, pulling yourself forward. 

Where the pipe appears to stop is actually just a sharp angle downward.  A grate swings on its hinges.  You peer down, but cannot see the bottom.  You hold the Doctor’s apple over the dark space, and let go.  You count, ‘One Wabbajack, two Wabbajack, three…”  You get to five before you think you can hear a very faint thud.  If this drop goes all the way to the ground of Blackreach, you know that the Doctor could not have survived the fall. 

Except, you did not see any variances in time like you did when his life was in danger before.  If the Doctor had triggered your time sight ability once, surely he would have again…

You make sure your pack is securely on your shoulders, then put your hands over your ears to protect your hearing.  “FEIM ZII!” you shout, and your flesh becomes vaguely translucent.  You feel almost nothing, not the weight of your bag or the sword at your waist.  You crawl forward to the edge of the opening, and then, you fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com 
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	4. Chapter 4

         

(For Funsies - [Click Here for Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=El5ZF0CRk2s&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u1NATMundqOdBxnnRZXKppa))

The damp mushroom smell is unmistakable.  The atmosphere seems older than Talos, with little of Skyrim’s crisp outside air making it this far down.  You can feel particles of dirt lightly brush past your skin, as if the ground is wrapping you in a mineral embrace.  But unlike most tunnels you’ve been in, where the stalactite ceilings push ever downwards with oppressive menace, the skilled Dwemer chose a cavern of magnificence to build their roads and structures in all those centuries ago.

The pipe had broken, possibly from the Doctor’s fall.  It’s connection to a building had ruptured, depositing you and the Doctor on the ground.  He lies motionless on his back a few feet from you.  The apple you had dropped sits next to him. 

Just as you figured, you are in the Silent City.  You glance at the old stone tower you are near.  Could it be the Hall of Rumination?  Before you are able to get your bearings properly, you think you see something moving.  A shadow creeps slowly near a building across the way.  A stone bridge about forty or fifty feet above keeps it obscured from the light.  The creature is too quiet to be a construct, too deliberate to be an animal.  You step forward and scoop up the apple.  You pitch back, and throw it as hard as you can.  It sails over the stone walkway and the other arches ahead, landing somewhere beyond.  The shadow hears it and immediately scurries away to find it.  You grunt slightly as your shoulder protests the vigorous movement.

Down at your feet, the Doctor is bleeding a little from a cut on his cheekbone.  You bend down and grab his right wrist.  There is a pulse, and from the high amount of beats, it seems that his heart must be racing.  “Doctor?” you whisper.  Next to his face is a small amount of shattered glass.  You pick up the black frames.  “You broke your spectacles.”

“Owwwhhh,” he groans as his eyes open slowly.  “I really need to stop visiting planets without lifts.”

“Is anything broken?  Are you all right?”

“I think…just my head.”  He sits up.

“Someday I will ask you how you survived that fall, but for now, we must move.  You are not safe here.”  You close your eyes and place your left hand on his head.  Quietly as you can, cast a small healing spell.  Opening your eyes, you look down at the man and hold your hand out.  “No, I could not fix it.”

He takes your hand and pulls himself up.  “What?  My head is already starting to…”

“Your hair.  It is still all wrong.”

“Ah, you’ve got jokes,” he says, his voice going high-pitched.

“Shh!  We must be quiet.”

He salutes once again in a mocking fashion, but lowers his voice.  “Yes, of course.  Silence.  Silence in the Silent City.”

You hand over his empty spectacle frames.  “Follow me.”  You walk to the right, ducking under a stone walkway. 

“You ever wonder why they call it the Silent City?  Especially if Dwemer techno – oh, look at that!”  As you pass the low building on your left, the orange-yellow artificial sun can be seen.  A giant ball of light, suspended from the ceiling of the cavern by a Dwemer metal frame.  The Doctor forgets to be quiet.  “That is fantastic!  I mean, really…”

“Doctor!” you hiss.  He takes out his screwdriver, and runs around the steps and pipes on the left, trying to get closer to the light.  His brown cloak catches in a puff of steam and it flies out behind him.  The fabric quickly deflates as a black arrow pierces the corner of it.  You unsheathe your sword.  “They have found us.”

On your right, coming down the stairs from the city wall, a Falmer Nightprowler stalks towards the direction of the Doctor, readying another arrow in his bow.  “Over here, Falmer scum!” you cry, trying to get his attention.  “Come and claim your prize.”

He quickly turns his head, gurgling in his throat.  The arrow is dripping with a thick substance on the tip, and the Falmer points it at you.  “Do it,” you say.  He lets the arrow fly, and you sidestep it.  While the Falmer reaches for the next one, you run at him, sword raised.  You throw an ice spike spell at his torso, which stuns him into dropping the arrow.  He makes a pitiful babbling noise, reacting to the pain.  You close the distance, and pull the edge of your blade down through his neck.  The skin splits, but the muscles prove difficult to cleave.  The Falmer wails, dark blood seeping out from behind his sharp teeth.  He tries to pull away, but your sword is stuck.  You push forward, knocking him to the ground.  “Hold still.”  You put your boot on his shoulder, and use it as leverage to pull your weapon loose.  His head lolls to the side, eyelids fluttering like a luna moth’s wings.  You stab him quickly in the heart, and all the Falmer’s movement ceases.

Removing your sword from his chest, you wipe the blood off your blade with a cloth dangling from the dead body.  You glance over your shoulder and can see the Doctor thirty or forty yards behind you, his eyes gone black with censure.  He is busying himself with his screwdriver.  “Be content that you are alive to disapprove of me.”  He shakes his head, looking at his instrument.  “If you wish to continue to do so, you need to make for the nearest exit to the surface.  I cannot save the holds while also chaperoning a man who is more like a suckling babe.”

“And I cannot travel with a murderer.”

“Murder?”  A tone of indignance supplants the measured calm in your voice.  You pick up the black arrow the Falmer dropped moments before, and walk over to the Doctor.  “This is just like the one that almost hit you.  See the muck on the end here?  Poison.  I wonder how your piety would fare against that.”  You snap the arrow in half and throw it to the side.

The Doctor furrows his brow at the screwdriver, then looks up at you.  “You ever try talking to them?”

“A Falmer?  No, I never got around to learning how to speak  ‘GURRGGHH’ while fighting for my life.”

“But he’s one of your kind.”

“That?  That…pathetic creature is  _ not _ one of my kind.”

“I’m going this way,” he says, indicating a stone arch leading South.

“Good.  There is a tower a few minutes’ walk that direction.  You can use it to get back to your people.”

He looks down his nose at you and sniffs.  “Your bandage has bled through, soldier.”

You twist your head to get a view of your shoulder.  The Doctor is right, the fibers of your Chameleon hood has soaked up all the liquid it can hold.  In using your sword on the Falmer, the wound opened again.  You close your eyes to evoke a spell, but once again, your magicka energy is depleted.  You had used too much during the fight and in healing the Doctor’s head.  Figuring Chameleon not to be a very useful effect when dealing with Falmer, you rip the hood off, stifling a cry when you wrench the part that was stuck to your skin. 

As you look for a clean bit of cloth to use as dressing, you notice that the Doctor has made it to the archway, but has stopped walking.  He is staring downwards at something.  “Probably sees a Chaurus Reaper he wants to bring home as a lovely pet,” you mutter. 

You walk over to the dead Falmer and tear off a piece of his scarce clothing.  Back before, when you used to have to deal with them more often, you would cut off the Falmers’ pointy ears.  When cooked, they were useful alchemical ingredients, particularly for resisting poison.  Though if you were honest with yourself, removing ears that looked so like your own off of mindless beasts had additional cathartic motives.  You pull a dagger out of your boot to do so now, but hesitate.  “Bah, I have plenty at home,” you whisper, replacing the dagger.

In the distance, you can hear the clangs of a Dwemer construct.  Quietly, you flit over to the wall that surrounds the Silent City, and walk along it.   You reach the arch that the Doctor left through, and realize that he has not gone far.  Halfway down the steps, he is holding up his screwdriver again, but he is looking down the road to the East.  Now you see what stopped him. 

The Falmer are engaged in full-on battle with Dwemer constructs in the streets several hundred yards away.  Shamans and archers hurl arrows and magic at spiders and spheres.  Heavily armored Falmer Warmongers and spellswords surround a twenty foot tall Dwemer Centurion, who is letting loose his steam breath on a flying Chaurus Hunter.

You walk down the steps and stop next to the Doctor.  “Now I see why the City was so lightly guarded.”  You loop the Falmer cloth around your shoulder and try to tie it.  Still looking at the battle down below, the Doctor takes the ends out of your hand and ties it for you.  “We were lucky all the best warriors are busy.”

“Hm,” he says, shortly.

You watch the fight as well.  “You’re right, they  _ were _ like me, once.  The Falmer.  Snow Elves, natives of Skyrim.”  The boom-hiss of a shock spell from a spider knocks back a Shadowmaster, who falls into the river.  “Your kind drove them off, killed them in war, starved them.  And they fled down here, to the Dwemer.  Cowards.”  The Centurion brings its battleaxe down onto the helmet of a Warmonger, the metallic crack reverberates around the stone walls.  “In exchange for refuge, the Dwarves blinded them all.  They were turned into slaves, and over the years became twisted husks of what they once were.”  A spellsword leaps onto the back of a sphere, while two others strike at the metallic base.  They bring it down, and it shatters into pieces.  “They lost sight, language, and anything they ever once had in common with me.”  You turn to the Doctor.  “I met an actual Snow Elf once.  Gelebor.  He calls them ‘The Betrayed’.”

“And I suppose you don’t,” the Doctor says, finally taking his gaze off the fight. 

“They were ‘The Weak’.  Weak-bodied, and worse, weak-willed.”

“There’s a word, soldier.  ‘Hubris’, do you know it?”  You shake your head.  His voice is low and serious.  “It means, too much pride.  Superiority.  It also implies a downfall.”

“A concept foreign to dragons.”

“You’re not a dragon.”

“You should go.”

The Doctor looks at you with eyes wide, as if seeing you for the first time.  “Ooooh, I get it.  You have no patience for men, are ashamed of elves.  The only thing you respect is your sworn enemy.”

“You get nothing, human.”

“And why wouldn’t you?  The only beings that you believe to be truly your equal, and your job is to rid the world of them.  Commit genocide in the name of peace.”

“The dragons would have made slaves of us all.  I do not know why I even bother with you.”  You start walking down the steps in the direction of the Tower of Mzark.

“Who was Vorstag?  That grave at Heljarchen.  Another man you had to chaperone?  Baby-sit?  Just another frail human?”

Whirling around, you look up the stairs at the Doctor.  “FUS!” you shout.  He flies up a few steps and lands on his backside.  “I will have silence!”

Your thu’um does not stop at the Doctor, and makes its way up to the artificial sun.  You hear a rumble, and the battle down the street slows to a stop.  All eyes and ears in Blackreach are on the giant orb, as the light changes to a dim reddish color.  Pieces of stone and dirt fall from the ceiling onto the city below, and a thick gray cloud of dust obscures the light.  An animalistic cry that is at once like low rolling thunder and steel grinding against glass echoes throughout the chamber.  

“Silence,” says the Doctor getting to his feet.  “…or you’ll wake him up.”

“Drem Yol Lok ,” you say, pulling out your sword.   _(Common dragon greeting. "Peace fire sky.")_ A grim smile creeps across your face.

The sound of massive wings beating the air can be heard somewhere to the North East, and then “YOL!”  The Silent City is suddenly backlit, as the fire shout illuminates the air.  A few seconds later, you can see it swooping over one of the carved stone buildings.  It circles once, then lands on the road, shaking the ground.

You walk East down the road, towards the milieu.  You do not bother sneaking, and make your way at an even, purposeful pace.  But the ancient gray dragon, one you somehow missed during your hunting days, is unaware of your presence.  Unlike most of his kind who all seemed to sense the proximity of the Dovahkiin, he is paying you no special mind. 

He snatches up a Falmer in his giant maw, shakes his head from side to side, then releases his victim, who flies lifeless into the river.  The Dwemer centurion attacks the dragon’s haunches with it’s great battleaxe.  The dragon quickly swings his tail back and then forward again, striking the centurion in the side.  The force from the blow knocks the construct back, who stumbles on the downward slope and falls down.  Steam surges out of the centurion’s damaged torso.  It tries to get back up to it’s feet again, but cannot.  It flails its arms, uselessly swinging at the ground.  The dragon breathes fire at the few remaining Dwemer spiders.  After enduring a few seconds of flame, they explode in a fury of electricity.

The Falmer combatants, sensing a superior foe, all attempt to flee.  A few scamper blindly into the Southern river, most make for hives and hiding-holes further to the East.  One Shadowmaster runs past you, neither knowing nor caring that you are there.

Now just a dozen paces from the dragon, you bring the hilt of your sword to your face, the blade pointing straight up in the air.  “Krif voth ahkrin, dovah ,” you say to honor your adversary.   _(Fight with courage, dragon.)_  But he does not respond, in Dovahzul or in common tongue.  Instead, he bites at the air and crawls towards you.  “Dreh hi ni tinvaak? ” you ask, bringing your sword into an attack posture.   _(Do you not speak?)_  It had been so many years since you had a clash with one of his kind, you’d hoped for a few traded words during the encounter as you had once done with Sahloknir or Krosulhah.  The dragon in front of you appears not to care for your speech, and shoots a prolonged breath of fire at you.  The flames barely touch you, however.  “Krosis, dovah.  Unfortunately for you, I am Dunmer. Fire and ash bother us little.  Your thu’um will not work on me.  Here is mine.  RII VAAZ ZOL!”

Your Soul Tear shout hits the dragon, and he stops crawling towards you.  He lets out a growl of distress, the force of which rattles the stones on the ground.  You dash around to his side, avoiding his great head, and strike at his abdomen with your sword.  

From down the road, you hear the Doctor raise his voice.  “Tiid do hin suleyksejun los oblaan.  Bo ko drem. ”   _(Time of your dominion is ended.  Fly in peace.)_

You look down the road, and see that he is coming towards you and the dragon.  “What are you doing, Doctor?!”

With careful enunciation, he proclaims, “Zu’u uth hi, bo ko drem! ”   _(I command you, fly in peace!)_

Dumbfounded, you momentarily forget to fight, and your sword arm falls to your side.  “You speak Dragon?”

The Doctor nods.  “But apparently, he does not.”  The dragon begins crawling forward again, this time towards the healer.  The wyrm bellows out his fire breath and the Doctor runs South towards the river.  You follow the dragon, hitting him again and again in the same spot, trying to pierce his thick hide.

“Hide behind the bridge!” you yell at the man.  He does not heed your advice and instead takes out his screwdriver.  He holds it up at the ceiling, and a stalactite fifteen or twenty feet long begins to shake.  Seeing what the Doctor is attempting, you sprint out in front of the dragon to draw his attention.  “Dovah, that sahlo su’um of a Nord means nothing.  Test yourself against me.”  The dragon snarls and bites, trying to get you in his teeth.  You swat his nose with the flat of your sword, as if chastising a dog.  “Now now, that is not polite.  Tell me your name before you have me for supper.”

The dragon, apparently irritated by the sound coming from the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver, once again starts charging towards him.  The heavy footsteps causes some of the Dwemer parts lying around to rattle.  Then, as you did on the road to Heljarchen, you see a flash and are stuck in place.  Your time sight ability has triggered once more.

The dragon steps on the end of a long Dwemer strut.  It bolts up like a catapult, which sends flying a piece of debris that was on top of it.  You can make out the sharp leg from a dead metal spider sailing towards the Doctor, who notices it too late.  It pierces his leg, and he cries out in pain.  Unable to flee the dragon, he burns in a bright light as the fire breath envelops him.  A second instance, you see the dragon step on the strut again, and now you try to use a shout to slow time, but your thu’um is not yet returned.  A third version of you throws your sword at the metal, trying to knock it away from its deadly path, but your shoulder is sore and the aim needed is too precise.  You try yelling at the Doctor to move, which he ignores and the cycle repeats.  You throw yourself forward at the strut, but only end up impaling yourself, causing the Doctor to be too distracted to get out of the way, and he dies again. 

You watch helplessly as all these scenarios play out, and begin to despair that you will ever figure out a way to save him.  But then, a sixth version of you steps out and throws a tiny frostbite spell at the spider leg, causing ice to form around it.  The frost unbalances the metal and causes it to wobble in flight.  All the images disappear, and you are once again able to move.

As with all the other times, the dragon steps on the strut.  You throw the spell the way you saw in your vision and the spider leg indeed changes course.  Rather than lancing the Doctor’s thigh, it merely grazes his knee, and he jumps into the river not a second too soon, avoiding the fire breath of the dragon.

Taking advantage of your foe’s divided attention, you grab one of his horns and use it as a handle to pull yourself up onto his head.  You hold your sword high with both hands, then drive it down into the dragon’s skull as hard as you can, yelling with exertion.  The weapon pierces his hide, but not his bone.  Ceasing his fire breath attack, the dragon whips his neck back and forth, and you try to hold on to your hilt to keep your balance.  Your grip slips, and you are thrown off.  You tumble and roll, finally coming to a stop face-down, thirty feet up the road.

The Doctor resurfaces, drawing in a deep breath of air.  Once again, he points his screwdriver at the stalactite, and this time it dislodges from the ceiling.  The large spike of mineral plummets downward and skewers the dragon squarely in his spine.  He bellows, the sound of rocks being turned to dust.  Flinging his wings upward, he tries to take flight, but the movement in his shoulder muscles only causes more agony.  His legs buckle, and his body falls to the ground.  The great head is the last to hit the stone; a puff of dust flies outward.  The dragon is dead.

And then, the glowing whispers begin.  As has always happened when you slay one of his kin, a golden light emanates from the corpse and soars over to you.  For a few moments, you are surrounded by illuminated voice and memory.  The Doctor, unsure what to make of this phenomenon, rushes out of the water and to your side.

“He is old,” you say in a weak voice.  Breath is hard to come by.  You roll over onto your side, gazing at your vanquished enemy.  “Been down here, underground, for ages.  Asleep.  Waiting.  Another slave of the Dwemer.  Or…were they his?  He has…forgotten.  Almost everything.  Light, wind, speech.  His name, his name was Vulthuryol.  Alduin did not wake him, he was a child of Akatosh.”  The glittering lights vanish.  You close your eyes.  “And now his ancient thu’um lives and dies with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	5. Chapter 5

(For Funsies - [ Click Here For Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMwomsJ9MR0&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u2HCVwX0vMKpmCVnTMa6YuG))

After a few moments of silence, the Doctor helps you to your feet.  You are badly bruised and quite sore.  Finding it hard to stand up straight, you lean on the Doctor’s arm.  “Thank you, sera.  I am old, and my bones cannot handle a tumble as they once could.”

“Nah, you’re a baby, yet.”

You make your way slowly towards the bridge over the river, him dripping and you limping.  You peer up at him, and he is looking at his control rod.  “Your hair is more presentable this way, Doctor, instead of sticking up like spiddal sticks…”

“Something is interfering with my screwdriver.”  He holds it up to his ear, the sound it makes slightly different than when you were above ground.  “No, not interfering, just…stronger.  And it’s coming from that tower.”

“Maybe whoever is controlling the constructs has quartered themselves there,” you guess.

“Maybe.  Would explain why I couldn’t get those spiders to stop fighting the Falmer.”  He holds the screwdriver up again, and the light flickers.  “It would have to be _really_ strong to overpower this.  I mean…”

Something in your lower back twinges, and you yelp in pain.  The Doctor keeps you from falling over.  “Help me,” you inhale sharply, “…to that boulder.”  You lock your jaw, and the two of you inch along to a large rock near the bridge.  He helps you down, and you lean on your sword.  “I will have to wait until I am able to heal myself.  You are suddenly being very helpful to a murderer, Doctor.”

He looks at the fallen dragon, then back to you.  “That…lifeforce.  Some sort of energy transfer.  Does that happen with every dragon you encounter?”

You nod.  “Save one.  I absorb their souls.  The only way to truly kill an immortal creature.  Otherwise, they would simply come back again.”

“All those lives, those voices in your head.  Must be, well…”  He smiles to himself.

“Doctor, I do not think you should go in that tower without me.  If there is something powerful in there, you will need my help.”  You take off your pack and place it on the rock next to you.

“It seems you are the one who needs help now, soldier.  And besides…”  He whirls around, his wet cloak spraying you with water.  He gestures at the Silent City enthusiastically.  “…I wouldn’t want to miss this view.”

“Hm.  Easy to say now that nothing is trying to kill us.”

“Oh go on, look!  Glittering rocks in the ceiling!  Giant fungi!  It’s magnificent!”  Low-hanging mist comes off the river and blows lazily past you.  The blue glowing mushrooms, some reaching a hundred feet high, sway in an unseen draft.  The Dwemer city to the north, made of ornately-carved yet crumbling stone, even might be construed as beautiful, for the moment.  “Ah, can you hear that?”

“The river?  Steam from distant pipes?”

“No no no, sh, listen.”  He looks around with child-like wonder, and you cannot help but be amused in spite of your hurts.  “It’s tingly.  Like music.”

“Ah, there must be nirnroot nearby.  Crimson nirnroot, down here.”  You take off one of your boots and dump the pebbles out.

He looks toward the banks of the river, and indeed there is a red glow.  He runs down to the plant.  “Biocanticumescence!  Aw, I haven’t come across that in centuries!”

“Bio-what?”

“Biocanticumescence.  It’s the chemical reaction that makes them sing!  Just like bioluminescence makes them glow.  Oh, those Dwemer sure know how to pick a spot.”  He takes hold of a leaf and licks it.  Immediately he lets go, wrinkling his nose and scraping his tongue against his teeth.

“Nirnroot is poisonous, Doctor.”

He brushes his hand off against his trouser leg, then bounds back up to you.  “You know, I would like a word with those Dwemer.”

You laugh once.  “Yes, me too.”

“Their slaves are fighting with their robots… do their masters not care?”  You shake your head, concentrating on replacing your boot without further back pain.  “Maybe it’s an uprising!  Maybe those Falmer are stronger than you think!”

“Doctor, what are you on about?”

“Why haven’t we seen any Dwemer yet?”  He turns on his screwdriver again, which continues to only work in bursts.  He bangs it against his hand.

“You cannot be serious.  The Dwemer?”

“If this is the major roadway between their larger cities, shouldn’t they be all over…”

“You _are_ serious.  You are actually expecting to see Dwarves.”

He turns rather suddenly and gives you a hard look.  “You didn’t kill them all, did you?  Like the dragons?”

“No, to Oblivion with you for saying that.  Doctor, they are gone.”

“What?”

“The Dwemer…how do you not know this?  Everyone knows.  They disappeared centuries ago.”

He frowns. “What do you mean they ‘disappeared’?”

“Vanished.  During a great war, they simply ceased to exist, all at once.”

“Things don’t just disappear.  They went _somewhere_.”

“Maybe, but no one knows where.”

“An entire race evaporates, and you are all fine with it?”

“Doctor, you really _are_ mad.  It was thousands of years ago.  Sure, some scholars have tried to figure out exactly what happened, but we just do not know.”

He looks back out at the cavern.  “So here this all sits.  Waiting for them.  Silent City indeed.”

“Who are you, Doctor?  Who are you really?”

He sniffs and puts his screwdriver in his pocket.  “I’m just a traveler.  A traveling healer.”

“A healer who knows no healing spells.  Who thinks one of the most basic healing potions in the world might be poison.”

“I never said I was good at it.”

“You keep saying you are not a Nord.  What are you, Imperial?  Breton?  Where are you from Doctor?”

He absently scratches his head. “Far away.  Just, you know, around.”

“There is no province in all of Tamriel that hasn’t heard of the disappearance of the Dwemer.”

“Oh, I’m just thick.”

“No, you are not.  And that is the problem.  Are you an Akaviri spy?”

He looks at you with one eyebrow raised.  “I’d be a rubbish spy if I came right out and said it, wouldn’t I?”

You stop leaning on your sword, and whip the blade up to face the Doctor.  He backs away quickly, putting his hands up in the air.  “Whoa, hey.  I’m not a spy, okay?”

“Is that not what a spy would say, jul wo tinvaak Dovahzul?”   _(...man who speaks Dragon-language?)_

“Dreh hi koraav zeim tiid wah sav zu’u lost zu’u hin hokoron?”   _(Would you see through time to save me if I were your enemy?)_

The end of your sword clangs to the ground.  “What did you say?”

He talks quickly.  “Somehow, maybe because of the energies from the dragons, maybe because of some other biological ability, you can see through time.  And you can make different decisions.  Am I right?”

You close your eyes, and try to remember if you got drunk at an inn one night and ran your mouth.  There was that one time at the Bee and Barb…  What was his name, Sil?  Soro?  Sam?  Did you accidentally reveal your secret to Sheogorath?

“I _am_ right.  Maybe you can’t do it all the time.  Maybe it only happens sometimes, when there is an important tipping point.  Or to save the life of someone else.”

You keep your eyes closed.  “It never works to save someone else’s life.  Only mine.”  You lift your left hand and cast the most powerful healing spell that you can manage.  “I could not save Vorstag.  I could not save Farkas, or any of the companions…”

“Companions?” he asks.

“I carried Farkas on my back from Hjaalmarch to Whiterun so he could be buried next to his brother.  He was not a light man.”  You let out a short, mirthless laugh.  “It did not happen for…  And I cursed it.  Oh, over time, I hated it.  I could only ever save myself.  Always me, alone.”  You open your eyes and look at the Doctor.  “Until you.”  He relaxes his stance and walks up to you.  He holds out a hand, but you hesitate. “How did you know?”

“I recognize the signs.  Know that look.  Call it...my own biological ability.”

You take his hand and allow him to help you up.  “I do not know why it is happening for you.  It would seem I have no choice but to trust that.”

“Well, I have a trustworthy face.”

You roll your right shoulder, feeling the muscles loosen.  “Elves are not like men.  We go on, we endure.  With your kind, you’ve barely learnt to hold down a pint, then poof, your life ends.  But we get old and just…”  You shake your head.

The Doctor takes a deep breath in, then with a grandiose gesture, he holds out his arm.  “Shall we?”

You scoop up your pack and put your arm through his. “Bit damp.”

“Awright,” he says, his voice changing again, like a bard’s.  “Always something with you.”

You walk across the bridge and up the worn stone steps.  Above the doors, a 15-foot carved metal face looks down at you.  In the low dancing light, it almost looks like his expression changes, as if slowly waking up from a long sleep.  You blink and look again, but of course he has not moved.  Just a trick of the light.

Each of you pushes on a handle, and the great metal doors whine open.  Ahead of you is a small circular chamber with a long lever in the middle.  You walk onto the platform, but the Doctor holds back.  “Some sort of mechanism to reveal the stairs?” he asks, taking out his screwdriver.

“No.  Come, sera.  Get on.”

He walks forward, waving his flickering device.  “Can’t…get it…”  You pull the handle and the floor jolts.  You hear a whoosh of steam and the sound of grinding metal gears.  The floor slowly begins to ascend.  The Doctor looks around, amazed.  “It’s a lift!”

“Yes,” you say, unsure about the source of his enthusiasm.

“Oh that’s brilliant.  I ended up on a planet with lifts after all.”

“I tried to tell you there was an easier way down…”

“Steam powered!  And…wait…some sort of gas?  Gas…no no no that should be way beyond your technology.  Too primitive…”  He bangs on his screwdriver again.

“The Dwemer.  They were obsessed with engineering.”  You tap the lever for emphasis.  “They shunned the old gods, had no use for them.  Only interested in scientific discovery.  Hardly used magic either, from what I know of them.”  You look up and see dim light outlining a ledge.  You are getting close to the top.

“They outpace everyone else on your world.  I wonder…” he says, looking down at his instrument.

“You know, you kind of remind me of Vorstag.  He was fascinated by the Dwarves, like you.  Wondered where they went.”  The floor abruptly stops moving, and you both are thrown slightly forward.  The lever returns to a center position, and the sound of steam ceases.  However, you have not quite made it to the ledge.  “This is strange.  Never had that happen before.”

The Doctor looks up at the ledge, then back down to you.  “What, never got stuck in a lift before?”  He pulls on the handle, but it does not budge.  “Don’t suppose you have a line out to emergency services?”

“Something must be stopping it.  It always…”  The Doctor grabs your arm and holds his finger up to his lips.  Then he points up.  A shadow gets thrown onto the wall of the lift, the silhouette of a spider.  It stops at the ledge, but does not appear to see you.  After a few seconds, it clangs away back into the room.  You whisper, “Use your control rod.  Get them to…”

He shakes his head.  “Can’t.  The interference is too strong in here.”

You sigh.  “Well then, help me up.”  After some undignified maneuvering, you are able to stand on his shoulders.  You reach for the ledge, but it is about a foot too high.  You strain and stretch, then give up.  It is simply not possible.  “Have any ideas?” you whisper irritably.

“Yeah, take the stairs.”

You shake your head.  Of course, there is a way out, but it is one you did not want to have to resort to.  Ever since the death of Odahviing, you had managed to resist using any summoning magic.  But you have little choice, now.  Starve to death in a stone lift, or break the vow you had made all those years ago.

You take in a deep breath, disgust with yourself tasting like charred skeever flesh.  Then you release your thu’um, “HUN KAAL ZOOR!”

Upon the ledge, the figure of a warrior with long hair and face paint materializes out of seemingly nothing.  He is at once there and not there, his body and ancient armor appearing translucent.  He looks down at you.  “What is your need, Dragonborn?”

“Hakon, pull me up.”

He crouches down and grabs your wrists.  As your eyes get over the edge of the floor, you can see three spiders heading your way from the room beyond.  “Hurry!” you say.  He yanks hard and you fly up onto the ground.  Though you had healed your shoulder of the wound, the sudden stress on the joint causes bolts of pain to shoot through your nerves.

Without hesitation, Hakon stands and pulls his battle axe off his back.  “I shall sing of thee in Sovngarde!”  Two bolts of lightning fly towards him, one of which hits.  Electricity envelops his diaphanous body, but he runs forward anyway.  “FUS RO DAH!”  The spiders fly back into the room.  One collides with a stone seat so forcefully that it explodes into metal pieces.  He brings up his axe and charges towards the nearest construct.  

You pull out your sword, bracing yourself against the ache in your body.  But before you can join the fray, it is over.  Hakon puts his weapon back in its holder and returns to the lift chamber.  “Feeling a little slow today?” he asks.

The corner of your mouth goes up in a slight smirk.  “Oh it is fine for you.  Some of us age, you know.”

He bows slightly.  “It has been many years for you, has it not?”

Your smile evaporates.  “And I am sorry to see you now.  I do not wish to rip you into this plane, away from your compatriots.”

“It is not so bad to battle once again in Tamriel.”

“Nonetheless, your soul is not mine to command.  You should return, I have no more need of you.”

“Hello up there?”  The Doctor’s voice echoes up from below.

“Oh, right.  Help me get him out.”  Hakon chuckles heartily, and nods.  He lowers you down by your legs and you grasp the Doctor’s hands.  “All right, pull!”  The Doctor slowly rises, and he places his feet on the wall.  He walks vertically, making your job a bit easier.  Through gritted teeth, you breathe, “Your boots have strange clinging abilities.”

“Rubber!  Good old Chucks, very grippy!”

Once the Doctor is brought over the ledge, you turn back to Hakon.  “I must ask you…”

“No,” he says, looking at you with pity.

“Vorstag?  Is he there with you?”  Hakon just shakes his head.  “Which songs does he sing?  You should keep him away from the ale, his voice goes like a betty netch when he gets drunk.”  You laugh once, more an act of desperation than mirth.

“You know I cannot tell you.”

"What about…what about our…”

“Dragonborn.”  He places his ethereal hand on your shoulder.  “I cannot.  I am here to lend you aid, not information.”

“Can you bring back a message, then?”

“Perhaps,” he says.

“Tell him…”  Your voice trembles, and you do not know if you can get out the words.  Even now, you are not sure if you can forgive Vorstag for his failure.  It is too complicated, and you are embarrassed by your outward emotions in the presence of the strange Doctor.  “Tell him... Bah, he knows.”

You unsheathe your sword, and walk around behind Hakon.  “It was good to see you again, Dunmer,” he says.

“Good-bye, old One-Eye.”

You jam your sword through his spine, and it comes out the other side through his stomach.  

“What are you doing?!” demands the Doctor, horrified.  Hakon arches his back in agony and groans.  You twist the sword to do more damage, the Nord’s body twitching.  You pull your weapon out and there is one last gasp from Hakon.  Then in a blink, he disappears.

You start walking to the room ahead, hoping his death rattle will not haunt your dreams.  You put your sword back in its sheath, the metallic slide-click sound still echoing as you say, “I sent him back to Sovngarde.”

After a bit of silence, you can hear the intermittent sound of the screwdriver behind you.  “There was some sort of energy transfer, but I can’t figure out…”

“They fixed the pipe,” you say.  You look back, and the Doctor is puzzling over the area where Hakon was.  He has pulled out a new pair of spectacles - white with colored lenses.  They look ridiculous, but you choose to ignore them.  “Doctor, this pipe used to be cleaved in two.  The spiders must have been fixing it.”  Above your head on the left side of the room, a large steam pipe has been mended with Dwemer metal.  It is not the only difference since you were here last, as the cooking spit and tattered bedroll that used to be on the stone floor in the center of the room have been pushed off to the sides.  “They were preparing this room as well.  Doctor…”

“They redirected the steam,” he says, his voice sounding cold again, like after the incident with the Falmer.  He puts his screwdriver back in his pocket and joins you in the main room.  “When they fixed the pipe, it cut off power to the lift.  They may not have even known we were coming.”

“Doctor, I know you think I am a murderer, but I did not kill Hakon.  You cannot kill the dead.”

“Yeah,” he says almost voicelessly, nodding once.

“Believe me, I would not have summoned him if I had any other choice.  Domination over others is the worst part of the dovah…”

“Where is Sovngarde, exactly?”

“What?”

“How do you transport his energy from there to here?  You must know where he is to pull that off.”

“Doctor, you are asking me where Shor’s plane is?  The Nordic afterlife?  You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” he says, rolling his head down to peer at you over the tops of his spectacles.

You throw your hands up.  “The question of an imbecile.”

“Sovngarde is real, right?  Hakon had to come from somewhere.”

“Of course it’s real.  I have been there.”

“Well then, where is it?”

You open your mouth and close it again.  “I…I…Aetherius, I guess.”

“Aetherius?”

“Where the stars are?  Or something?  I am not a scholar, Doctor.  Why do you care?”

“Because I think you pulled Hakon through space, through the void.  My screwdriver’s gone screwy, needed to use my glasses to be sure.  But I saw trace amounts of subatomic particle radiation in the spot where Hakon disappeared.  Therefore, you are transporting him from one time to another.”

“You are doing that thing again, Doctor.  Where you say words with no meaning.”

“Some say that’s what I do best.”

“Doctor…”

“Here,” he says, taking off his spectacles.

“What?”

“Put them on, tell me what you see.”

Your cantankerous impatience makes you want to resist, but you take them anyway.  They are incredibly light, almost like parchment.  One lens is red, the other blue.  You put them over your eyes and the room looks different.  The outline of the Doctor is doubled, as if there are two of him the width of a hair apart.  He is surrounded by green-brown particles, like thick dirt caught in a wind.  He takes a step to the left, and the dirt follows him in a cloud.  “Do you see them?” he asks.

“What is that, Doctor?”

“Radiation.  Now look around, do you see more?”  The room is only dimly lit by a gaslight overhead, but you can still make out that some of the particles surround the destroyed spiders.  “Look at the door,” he says, gesturing at the entrance to the next room.  Indeed, this ‘radiation’ seems to be coming from the door.  The Doctor begins to pace the room.  “Soldier, you pulled your friend from some other world.  Through the void that surrounds your own.  Your system, with it’s sun and little planets, exists in a bubble in the void.   _Nothing_ should be in the void, or else it’s not much of a ‘void’.  And yet here you are, with life and death and singing plants and terrible apples.  A whole impossible cosmos existing in the nowhere.”   

You pull the glasses off.  Even though you do not properly understand what he is trying to say, a sense of dread pulses through your body.  “I do not want to see this.”

He stops walking around and looks at you grimly.  “Whatever is doing all these things - controlling the robots, interfering with my screwdriver - has the power to communicate through time.  Through the void.  Maybe even has the ability to call me here.”

He strides up to the metal doors and puts his hand on one.  He looks back you, his eyes hard with resolve.  “ _Allons-y._ ”  The Doctor pulls, and the door lets him into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	6. Chapter 6

 

(For Funsies - [Click Here for Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXD2hEITmZA&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u1WUAbjcJ1I_AUvx6RDnJ07))

You hear the Doctor’s shoes thud quickly away, and you know he must be running up the ramp of the oculory.  It is rare for you to feel fear, but your confusion at his words leaves you doubting your own abilities.  His talk of the void, the black space you know as Oblivion, chills you more than you care to admit.  You barely escaped with your life the last time you were in Apocrypha, Hermaeus Mora’s realm, and you were a lot younger then.

As much to shake your thoughts as to help the Doctor, you go after him.  From the entrance, all that can be seen is the massive dirty-yellow metal ball that makes up the base of the oculory.  On the left is a ramp that winds around the outside of it, where it finally ends at the top of the sphere.  You jog up the ramp and see that he has stopped midway.  “Doctor?” you say uncertainly. 

“It can’t be.  It just can’t.”  He is examining one of the markings on the outside of the ball.  There are green glass circles set into the metal, some of which intersect with each other.  Carved into the glass are blue lines that arch and circle around each other. 

“What is it?”

He puts his finger on one of the lines and traces it.  “What do you know about these markings?”

“Not much.  They are pretty common in Dwemer oculories.  At least the ones I’ve been to.”

“Oculory?”

“Machines that bend light for various purposes.”  He snatches his hand back away from the markings, as if burned by fire.  You continue, softly, “There’s one at the top if you keep going, sera.”

He looks at you, his eyes wide.  “Has anyone translated them?”

“Translated?  You think it is some sort of language?”

He turns and runs up the ramp, shouting, “Oh yes!”  You follow him to the first landing.  He dashes out onto the metal floor and stares up at the focusing lenses in wonder.  The round panes of green glass hang from the ceiling in their neutral position, just as you left them last time.  “Look at that!” he exclaims, pointing.  “‘Fire’?  I think fire.”

You turn your gaze to the colorful spectacles in your hand.  A theory that you have been ignoring, that you have been hoping was wrong ever since you were in the basement at Heljarchen, pushes its way to the front of your thoughts.  You cannot ignore it.

The Doctor continues chattering to himself, circling around excitedly.  “‘Snow’, maybe?  Or ‘ice’.”

You put the spectacles on.  Your worries are confirmed.  Your breath gets stuck, and you let out a constrained, “Doctor.”

“This one, I can’t really tell.  Hard to see.  ‘Untamed’ or ‘free’.  No, not quite.”

“Doctor,” you say, at once needing his attention and hoping he’ll continue to ignore you.

“It’s so crude, just simple words and phrases.  ‘Rift’.  Must be an early version.”

“Doctor, it is my fault.  It was not just the hall.  It is this.”

“Some sort of Proto-G…”

“Doctor!”  He stops and looks at you.  “It’s me, I…I put it back, you see.  To keep it safe.  It was not safe at Heljarchen.  It was not safe in my home.  All manner of creatures wanted it, bandits…So I brought it back to where I found it.”

The Doctor walks over to you.  “Okay, hey.  Just tell me what you’re talking about.”

“The spectacles.  I did not want to see.”  You rip them off your face.  Handing them over, you shake your head and clear your throat.  “Look up there.  Above the glass, up in the ceiling.” 

He does so, and his face is serious once more.  “What is up there?”

“That…that dirt?  Those particles?  They go around things that travel through the void?”

“Soldier, what...”

“Whoever is commanding the constructs, they did it through that.  One of your people is dead, because of that.  And I put it there.”

Exasperated, the Doctor shouts, “What is it?!”

“Time itself.”

“How do you mean, ‘time itself’?”

“An Elder Scroll.”  His jaw drops, and he stumbles back two paces.  “Where you can see the future.  And the past.  Everything.  I was trying to keep it safe.”

He rushes back down the ramp, towards the first circles he examined.  “‘From light, knowledge,’” he reads.

“I need to get it back down.  Take it somewhere far away.”  You start up the ramp towards the second landing, where the controls are on a viewing platform.

“Oh, I am thick!” the Doctor shouts, his voice echoing through the room.  “Sir Thick from the Citadel of Stupid, me.”  He runs back up to the first landing and looks at the lenses again.  “That’s not ‘untamed’, it’s ‘untempered’.”  He moves his spectacles up and down on his face, surveying the scene with and without the radiation.

You reach the platform and examine the buttons.  There are four in all – glass spheres encased in Dwemer metal.  You push one, but nothing happens.  It dawns on you that you needed a lexicon cube to get the device to work last time, and you have no idea from where to procure one.  “Doctor, I do not think I can get it down after all.” 

“Something out there is sending a message through the time vortex to the Dwarven kingdoms.”

“Why, do you think?”  You push another button.

“Oh I dunno.”  The Doctor pockets the spectacles.

“I find that hard to believe.  Doctor, we need to take the Elder Scroll out of here, but I cannot make this work.”

“What, another broken machine?”  He bounds up the ramp to your side, taking out his screwdriver.  “Let’s see here…”

“We need a lexicon.  It will not lower the Elder Scroll without one.”

“Hm, yes these buttons aren’t even hooked up to anything.  Some sort of key must connect them.”  He bends down to look at the center panel, putting on his black-rimmed spectacles.  Letting out a small grumble, he seems to remember the lenses are broken, and he pockets them again.

“The lexicon.  A Dwemer cube that goes right over here,” you say, pointing to the empty stand on the right.

He raises an eyebrow.  “Lexicon?  Some sort of translation device?”

“Looking at an Elder Scroll is dangerous.  Some go blind, some go mad.”

“Yes, I’m quite familiar with the side effects.”

“The Dwemer devised a way to glean insights from the Elder Scrolls indirectly.  The oculory takes information from the scroll, and transcribes it to a lexicon.  At which point…”

“‘From light, knowledge.’  Hang on, that’s genius.  I mean, properly brilliant.  Like a rudimentary Matrix.”

“‘Matrix’, Doctor?”

“The Visionary might have skipped all those questionable face tattoos if we’d had something like that.  So this lexicon thingy?  What’s it look like?  Where do we get one?”

“They are incredibly rare.  Cubes, a few inches in diameter with carvings on the sides, rather like the circles in the glass…”

“What, you mean like this?”  From out of one of his pockets, the Doctor hands you a stone cube, with circular carvings on the sides far more intricate than any you had seen before.  It is encased in some sort of clear material, like glass but lighter.

“I – I…” you stutter.

“There is a message in there, for me.  Someone was trying to get my attention.”  He waves his screwdriver over it and suddenly you can hear a male voice.

“Help!  I’ve been stuck here for too long.  Help!  I’ve been stuck...”

Startled, you hold it back out to the Doctor.  He smiles and takes it from you.  He aims his screwdriver at it again, which emits short bursts of sound.  “You know, with a little jiggery pokery, I bet I can get it…”  You hear a click, and the clear material vanishes.  “There we go.  Now we can imprint more information on the little guy.”  He places the cube into the stand, and immediately there is a loud bang overhead.  A piece of the ceiling moves, and a powerful white light shines down on the lenses in the center of the room.  You and the Doctor share a grin.

“You are full of wonders, muthsera.”

“ _ Muth _ sera.  Oh I must have impressed you.”

“My turn, then.”  You press one of the buttons on the right, and the metal on the floor whirs to life.  Massive rings shift, revealing more panes of green glass embedded in the ball beneath the hanging lenses.  In its stand, the Doctor’s lexicon floats in place.  The metal casing slides away, revealing a glowing orb the color of malachite.  You press another button, and the lenses in the ceiling swing out wide on metal arms.  After a third press, the lenses rearrange and direct the light from the ceiling down towards the glass circles in the floor.  However, one beam is slightly off.  “That will need adjusting.  Doctor, did you say that some of those circles said words?”

“They do!”  Putting one hand on the control panel, he leaps over it with both feet and falls down to the first landing.  “Yeah, it says ‘fire’.”

You throw a blast of flame, and the metal whines.  “You know, Doctor, it would have been handy to have you here before.  Could have used your linguistic prowess, oh, a hundred years or so ago.”  You flick a second fireball, and the metal arm finally gives, warping to the location it needs to be.  The light beam moves over to a circle of glass.  “Of course, your grandmother may not have even been born yet.”

“You never know,” he replies.

You press the last button.  The metal pieces on the lexicon slide back into place, and the cube drops down into the stand.  Out in the room, the lenses heave away, and a great circular frame descends from the ceiling.  In the center is a ten-foot-long piece of glass that lowers and turns horizontally.  The glass splits, revealing the Elder Scroll.

Picking up the lexicon and walking down the ramp, you begin to wonder where you can hide the Elder Scroll.  Let the sea take it?  Cast it into a Time Wound?  The Imperial Library used to be secure, but you have no faith in the capacity of the Empire to hold off petty thieves, much less powerful void-travelling creatures.

The Doctor has picked up the Scroll by its metal handles and is muttering to himself.  “A portable Untempered Schism?  Impossible.”  He turns the Scroll over.  “And yet, touching it, I want to run away.”

As you get near him, you can see that he is pressing his finger into the opening of the case.  “Doctor, don’t.”

“I have to check…”  He pulls out the edge of the parchment and looks.

“Doctor, no!”  You grab his arm with your left hand and reach to yank it from him with your right.  In so doing, you look into the Elder Scroll.

There is a flash and you can no longer see the room around you.  Strange symbols and a map of stars you do not recognize implant themselves into your brain.  And then, a voice.  “I’m a Time Lord.  The last of the Time Lords.”  You see an old man in funny dress get into a cylinder structure, a younger man in a colorful cloak runs into a large building, a man in black leather dances, the Doctor presses his face and hand against a blank, white wall.  You shut your eyes, but it is no use as the visions continue unabated.  A young brunette looks stunned as an old man says, “Just go forward in all your beliefs…”  A dark-haired boy pats a dog made of metal.  A redhead flees from a giant bee.  A city burns under a great dome, flying creatures screech “Exterminate!” as children attempt to escape, men and women lie motionless on the road.  Images by the thousand flood your consciousness and threaten to drown your mind.  Awe and anguish, loathing and laughter, combined always with such terrible noise.  The sound of it all, the cacophony bars you from perceiving your own yelp. 

Yet somehow through the roar, you hear the Doctor gently telling you to let go of his arm.  With great effort, you do and immediately feel better.  The apparitions no longer control your thoughts, but the knowledge of them is still with you.  You open your eyes and see that the Doctor has rolled the scroll back up.  

You bend over and breathe heavily, as if recovering from a run.  “Did you see...what I saw?”

“No,” he says.

“I saw other worlds... so unlike this one.  But, somehow, still familiar.  I saw  _ you. _  You had lost something…”

“Yeah, probably shouldn’t touch a Time Lord when gazing through a gap in reality.” 

“So they were you?  All those men?  You are not men, though.  Are you a Daedric prince?  Some sort of shape-shifting werebeast?”

“Oi, I’m not a werewolf!  I just…change, from time to time.”  He runs a hand through his hair.

Your wind returning, you straighten up.  “You know, for someone so squeamish about battle, you seem to have fought in a great many wars.”

The Doctor looks down at the Scroll in his hands, then foists it onto his shoulder.  “Listen, I should take this back to the TARDIS.  Keep it safe.”

“That place where you live.  The blue box.”

He nods.  “Now that we’ve removed the Scroll from the machine, the oculory can’t act as a transmitter anymore.  Still, better safe than sorry.  Dwarven hordes will have a hell of a time getting through my doors!”

“Well, there is the lift.”  You both start walking down the hallway under the viewing platform.  “And now you can go back to your people!  They are like you, are they not?  Somehow, those Siben Nords…”

He gestures at the lexicon cube in your hand.  “I believe one of them sent that to me.  I was about to find out when the machines attacked the village.”

“Well that is a wonder!  Do I have that right, Doctor?  You have been looking for your people since a war?”

“I  _ thought _ I was the only one left.  But I’ve been wrong before.  Maybe they got trapped here or they used a chameleon arch…”

As he reaches out to pull the lever for the lift, you grab his arm and stop him.  You remember something you saw in the Scroll and you look the Doctor in the eye.  “Be careful Time Lord.  The last time you received one of these, it only served to disappoint you.”

He cocks his head slightly.  “Come again?”

“The…oh what was it…the Course-hair?  Corps-air?  A word I do not know.  Someone that you were rather delighted to hear from.”

“It has been ages since anyone sent them around.”  The Doctor pulls the lever, and the lift begins to crank upwards.

“It was not what it seemed, somehow.  When you went to him, it only broke your heart.  At least, I think?  Everything is a jumble…”

Now the Doctor looks at you intently.  “Listen, I’m not sure what you saw, but looking through the time vortex is dangerous.  Forward, backward - all the same in the schism.  It’s very important that you don’t tell me my future.” 

The air gets colder and brighter.  The lift starts to slow as it nears the surface.  “Would you not want to know?”

“Precisely why you have to keep it to yourself.”

The lift stops.  “Tell me Doctor, what did  _ you _ see in the Elder Scroll?”

He pulls his damp cloak tighter around his body.  “Same thing as always.”  He pushes open the metal gate and walks away down the snowy path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	7. Chapter 7

(For Funsies - [Click Here For Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrRxgV7nVr0&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u2iIBS7hCy4Y95z55UjgU8O))

“So of course, once the King Vampire was dead, all the others just,” the Doctor puffs air out of his mouth, accentuating the ‘p’.

“Dust, then?”  He nods.  Unaccustomed to making small talk, you try to think of something to say.  “You know, you can mix their dust with some of that crimson nirnroot you saw down in Blackreach.  Makes an invisibility potion.”

“Is that what passes for recycling in this place?  Blimey.”  He sniffs.

“What happened to your comrades?  Did they survive?”

“Oh, Adric, he…”  The Doctor inhales sharply as his teeth chatter.  “Could use some warm clothes.  Scarf.”

During the walk, you had handed over all the snowberries from your pack to try to keep him warm, but their heating effects did not stay active for long.  You offered to build a fire to dry his clothes and camp for the night, but he declined, claiming a desire to get back to his people as quickly as possible.  Now you are South of the snowline and finally drawing near to Whiterun.  The walls of Dragonsreach dominate the skyline on your right, reflecting a pale purple sheen in the dying light.

“So there are vampires here?” he asks.

“Nest of them went on a murderous rampage awhile back.  Killed a friend of mine in Whiterun, a blacksmith.  I…remedied the situation.”  Just off the road up ahead, you see a boxy structure that you have never noticed before.  It certainly was not there this morning, and that should make you feel uneasy.  Somehow, it does not.  In this moment, all is calm.  You continue speaking, “But even so, there was one who I travelled with for a long time.”

“Ghost warriors and vampires.  Do you have any mates you just go down to the pub with?”

“Do you?” you counter.

He shifts the Elder Scroll from one shoulder to the other, and shoves his free hand into his pocket.  “Maybe I’ll get some.”

“Maybe you will.  Maybe now that you have found your kinsmen, you will have a more quiet life.”

“Maybe I will.”  His voice is light, but his eyes are without mirth.

In the scrubby grass, torchbugs and luna moths begin to flit about.  Over the top of the stone citadel on the hill, Masser and Secunda edge up into the sky.  Adding their light to the aurora borealis, you can now clearly see that the object you spotted earlier is blue.  You recognize it from your visions of the Doctor in the Elder Scroll.  It is only a few dozen yards away.

“Moon rise,” he says, gazing upwards.  “Did I tell you about the werewolf?”

You smile.  “Ah!  Did they do battle with the vampires?  Or rescue Adric and Romana?  They do not usually…”

“No, no, the werewolf was later.  With…I was not travelling with them anymore.”  He rubs his red face and glances up again.  “Dual moons.  Do your werewolves have dual heads?”

You laugh.  “Just the one.  Stalwart companions.  And some will even go to the mead hall with you.”

The Doctor stops in front of his box, and fishes a small key out of his pocket.  “I need to drop this off.”  He turns and unlocks the door.  It opens with a light creak, and you try to catch a glimpse of the inside.  A warm yellow space, a low pulsing hum…the Doctor wedges his body into the opening and tosses the Elder Scroll inside.  In one long stride, he steps back out of the box and closes the door.  “Well then, onward!”

Returning to the road, your thoughts dwell on the Doctor’s carriage to the sky.  Judging by the visions you saw, that TARDIS would be a relief from the boredom of your dotage.  A chance to be useful again, have an adventure, maybe even an opportunity to acquire more power…

“I am going home!” you blurt, the words running into one another.  The Doctor looks over at you, raising his thick left eyebrow.  You regain your composure.  “I mean, I shall not accompany you further once in the city.  It will be easy enough for you to find your people on your own.”

“All right,” he says, elongating the vowels.

“You do not need me standing around gawking like a gargoyle during the happy reunion with your kin.”

“Right,” he repeats, snapping his eyes back to the road.

You continue the rest of the way in silence, trying to rid your mind of youthful ambitions.

At the wooden gates to the city, you pause and greet the guard stationed there.  “Hail watchman.  Anything to report?”

The man stands up straight and uses a practiced, formal voice.  “By order of the Jarl, travelers are to be advised of increased danger near Dwarven ruins.  Patrolmen are at medium alert.  Khajiit caravans are to remain outside city walls by at least one hundred…”

“Thank you, sera.”

The soldier relaxes his posture and looks at you kindly.  “As of sundown, Dragonborn, all is quiet.”

“Did any children come through here?  With one of your patrolman?”  The Doctor speaks rapidly.

“It has only been an hour since I reported for duty, citizen.  I have not seen any children pass these walls.”

“Who can I…”

You touch the Doctor’s arm.  “Come, the barracks are just inside the city.”

“Rokvir?  Have you seen him?”

The guard clears his throat impatiently, and you gently pull on the Doctor’s hand.  “You will find more answers up ahead.”  He lets you drag him forward, and you push through the doors.  “There, see?  Just over there is the guard house.”  You point at a flat-roofed stone building to the left of the main city drag.

He gives you a quick mock salute, then hops over the city bridge.  In a flurry of brown cloak and red shoes, he disappears into the structure.

Your muscles suddenly remember their age, and for the first time in hours, you yearn for your walking staff.  The Whiterun house will have to do for the night.  Looking at Breezehome, you can almost smell the vegetable soup, feel the warmth of the fire, hear Lydia’s cranky voice…but no.  There will be no food waiting, the hearth will be cold.  You have not had a Whiterun housecarl in an age.

Slowly shuffling up the road, past the latest smithy whose name you do not know, you see dozens of townsfolk out and about, taking in the evening air.  Shopkeepers are closing up their stores, men and women call to each other as they head to the inn for their suppers, a mother and her son amble toward the Wind District.

As you approach Breezehome, an old Nord dressed in dusty red robes comes out from around the corner of the house.  With unexpected spryness, he steps in between you and the door.  “Stay away from him, lass, if you know what’s good for ye.”

“Come again, gaffer?”

He leans in close to you, smelling of sweat and ale.  “You are in for a world of trouble, and more, if you keep company with the likes of him.”

“I do not know who you…”

“Oh yes you do.  The Doctor,” he spits out the name with contempt.  “Ill tidings whenever he comes ‘round.  Run and hide, child.  Run and hide.”  Your tolerance for nonsense is shorter than your curiosity, and you raise a hand to push him aside.  He deftly slaps it away and puts a finger to your chest.  “You think I don’t know who you are, Dragonborn.  But your past heroics are no match for monsters that snuff out the stars.”

You take a step back off the porch, and draw your sword.

“I am not the danger, little Dunmer.  Swords and spells to the likes of him are like dandelions to dragons.”  He clicks his tongue against his teeth and steps off the porch.  You keep the end of your sword pointing at him, your weary body attempting to be battle-ready.  As he walks around you, he shakes his head pityingly.  “Heed my words, lass.  We are all infants to the infinite.”  He walks away up the road toward the markets.

You let out a deep breath, feeling an unmistakable rattle in your chest.     

* * *

 A gray-haired man stands in a barn…or is it several men?  You can sense other presences not fully realized.  He appears to be distressed by a box in front of him.  People in strange dress surround a table, discussing an “ultimate sanction.”  You recognize the Doctor, angry, desperate, facing off against these people.  A woman asks haughtily, “Am I expected to abandon my research because of the side effects on inferior species?”  Machines in a black sky threaten total destruction if “Gallifrey” returns.  The man in the barn is legion, yet alone.  “Two point four seven billion,” says the Doctor.  The children are all murdered, just like yours.

You sit bolt upright, sweat on your neck despite the cold room.  Breathing out, you momentarily forget where you are.  Driven by instinct, you reach for the sword at your side.  You whip the blade up into the darkness – have you pierced it?  You perceive a dark mass without shape or form, something aggressively draining away the light to make a purposeful absence.  “I know you are there, invisibility spell be damned!”  Four shadows move, but no one answers you.  “Oh for the love of Azura, LAAS YAH!”  Your Aura Whisper thu’um reveals no life forces near you, save the townsfolk casually strolling down the road outside.

“Afraid of the dark?  N’wah,” you chide yourself while lowering the weapon.  A chill darts through you as your sweat starts to dry.  You consider going out to the Bannered Mare for warmth.

When you had entered Breezehome, it was predictably cold and dusty.  You spent a little effort building a fire, though it would seem to be mostly embers now.  Too tired to cook or bathe, you fell into bed and immediately began to dream.  Were those just dreams, or was your mind trying to sort what you saw in the Elder Scroll?

Judging by the amount of people still out-of-doors, you guess that you have not been asleep long.  You stiffly swing your feet out onto the floor and rise.  Downstairs, the pot you had set over the fire earlier still contains warm water, so you wash some of the blood and Dwemer oil off your body.  Passing an old weapon rack, you notice a dark stave with the figure of a face carved into it.  You pluck it from the stand.  “As good a walking staff as any.”  

The Bannered Mare is still bustling with patrons when you arrive.  More than usual, in fact, as it seems the people from Siben are taking refuge here.  No sign of the Doctor, but you do see Finn in a corner, talking in a low voice to one of the elderly women from the settlement.  None of the younger children are in the common room, and you consider inquiring after their welfare.  But your numb limbs and empty stomach take precedence.  Any further issues for the displaced families should be left to the hold guards.

You navigate through the crowd to the counter and take a seat.  “Ysotte!”  Spying the shapely Nord proprietor, you slap the counter once.  “Mug of mazte and bowl of horker stew!”

“Keep your greaves on, I’m a little…”  The brunette’s face softens into a sprightly grin that belies her age.  “Oh, hail Dragonborn!  A boon to ya.”  She leans over the counter to the young male Imperial she had been talking to and whispers in his ear.  He blushes, and hurries off to another room.  Walking over to you, she grabs a pewter mug and drains its contents into her mouth.

You shake your head in mock disapproval.  “Still have an eye for the lads, I see.  That pup’s half your age!”

Ysotte laughs heartily.  “Why not?  Men love my ale.  So long as they’re buyin’, I’m sellin’.”  She bellows to be heard over the din of the throng and music, “Order in – horker stew!”

From somewhere in the kitchen, you hear someone respond, “Aye!”

“Where is Little Mikael?  Did he leave you alone to deal with this crowd?”

She reaches under the counter and pulls out a yellow jug.  “He’s in the back parlor hagglin’ with them refugees.  I keep telling ‘em, even with our recent expansion, we just don’t have enough rooms to house them all, and they don’t have enough coin beside.  But my brother’s got a softer heart’n me.”  She pours a pint of mazte and slides it over to you.  You pull out a few Septims, but Ysotte shakes her head.  “Your gold’s no good here, friend.  You know that.  I only keep this Dunmer swill around for you anyway.”

You eagerly take a large gulp and smile.  “Better than that skeever juice you Nords call ale.”

Ysotte attempts to respond to your taunt, but the bard ends his song and some patrons clap.  With a mischievous glint in her eye, she snatches the mug from you and pours it out over the waste barrel.  As the applause dies down, someone at the other end of the bar calls for her, and she heads in his direction.

“By Sheogorath,” you mutter, and grab the jug of mazte.  Turning around on your stool, you uncork the bottle with your teeth and spit it out over your shoulder.  You take a long drink, and lean on your staff.  The brew begins to work it’s magic on your insides, and you enjoy the burgeoning warmth in your belly.

The robust fire in the center of the room is cheerful, though it is clear many of the folk around you are not in such fine spirits.  A few drunken Nord townsfolk are starting to get rowdy over at the edge of the room, and you can hear raised voices coming from the back parlor.  An argument over the Siben people’s situation, no doubt.

The bard picks up a lute and announces, “This is a local favorite that has been sung in this hall for many a generation.  ‘Ragnar the Red’.”

In a thick brogue, an old Imperial man shouts, “Right, you just sang that!”  His companions shush him, but the unruly Nords on the other side of the room jeer at the performer.

The minstrel shifts his weight and clears his throat.  In a shaky voice, he sings, “ _Oh there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red who came riding to Whiterun…_ ”

“To shut you up!” calls one of the drunken Nords.  More laughter around the room.

The musician misses a note on his instrument, then stops playing altogether.  “I…I think I’ll take a break now.”  Some of the men cheer, and the bard scurries into the kitchen.

The room is somehow getting louder without the music.  You take a long, indulgent drink and look over at the shouty, gray-haired Imperial by the fire.  There is something about him that is familiar.  Have you met him before?  You blink twice, slowly.  His accent and his face are lodged somewhere in your memory.  A name is coming to you, Caius?  Caerellius?  Caecil…

“You are NOT to contact that man ever again.  Dismissed!”  The old woman Finn has been talking to interrupts your thoughts with this outburst.  Finn stands up abruptly in a huff and turns to go, bumping into a large, drunk Nord.  Conversations halt as all eyes in the room focus on the upheaval in the corner.  The black-bearded bear of a man turns around and claps a hand on Finn’s shoulder.

“Ho cub, dishonoring your betters, eh?”

Finn scrambles back, peering up at him.  “I…I…”

In a high-pitched mocking voice, he mimics, “I, I, oh no I wet me trousers, mama!”  He sneers at the old woman, who rises and runs out the front door.  With her gone, he turns his attention back to Finn, who is now wedged against the wall.  “Well, guess your old maw ain’t too keen on cleaning your messes.  Didn’t teach you manners, neither.  Who’s gonna pay for the drink you spilled?”

Finn furrows his brow, rattled but defiant.  “I did not spill your ale.   _Sir_.”

The Nord looks back at his friends, who laugh.  He chuckles too, and steps closer to Finn.  “Oh no?  Then why is it all over your shoes?”  With his left hand, he pours the contents of his mug over Finn’s head.

The Nord’s friends whoop, and one chants the name “Blacktooth!” a few enthusiastic times.  The adolescent stands in shock for a second, two.  He brings both hands up and wipes the liquid out of his eyes in one pointed motion.  He looks up at the Nord, then runs a few fingers through his red hair.  “Thank you, sir, kindly, sir.  You know, sir, I hear mead works wonders on the old locks.”

The smile falls from Blacktooth’s face.  “What?”

“Makes it shiny.”  Finn smiles, then shakes his head, spraying droplets of alcohol all over the man.

Blacktooth heaves his right fist back, then pitches it forward at Finn’s head.  The punch goes wild; the Nord’s speed and agility casualties of the ale.  Finn dodges the attack easily, and scoots away from the wall.  He moves in front of a large wooden support pole near the fire pit.  Blacktooth tosses his mug to the side, then growls, “I’m gonna knock you back to a baby in your maw’s nethers.”  He charges with both arms out, perhaps hoping to tackle, but Finn once again leaps out of the way, hopping over the flames.  Blacktooth slams into the wooden beam head first, and collapses to the floor, knocked out cold.

“Gaun yersel, lad!” encourages the old Imperial from his bench.  He pats Finn on the back as he trots by.

In a flurry of crackles, some of the wood shifts in the blaze, and a piece of hot cinder pops out of the pit and onto Blacktooth’s beard.  You notice little wisps of smoke puff up from the bushy tangle of hair, but you say nothing.  The Nord’s three companions stand, one of them knocking a chair over.  Finn’s eyes widen, but he maintains his bravado.  “Now gentlemen, I don’t believe I’ll be needing anymore brew baths.  If you could…”  Cutting off the sentence, one of the men lands a clean blow on Finn’s jaw.  The boy staggers back, trips on a bench, and falls on his backside.

You rise to your feet slowly, resenting the idea that you have to intervene.  “That’s enough,” you say evenly.

The Nord who threw the punch looks over at you.  “Stay out of this, Gray-Skin.”

Finn scrambles to his feet.  Hobbling with your staff, you place yourself between the man and boy.  “He has learned his lesson.”

“Don’t think I won’t hit an old lady.”

“He’s set Blacktooth on fire!”  One of the other men has noticed the smoldering beard, and runs over to stamp it out.  This wakes Blacktooth who jerks his head back.  Some of the hair rips out, staying underfoot of his companion, leaving a large, unsightly bald spot on his face.  Blacktooth bellows in anger, and you cannot help but smile.

The Nord in front of you sighs.  “Good night, Ash Crone.”

He winds up to swing at you, but before he can make contact, you shout, “IIZ!”  Ice emanates from you, freezing the Nord and his friend behind him solid.

“Now Finn,” you say, your voice like an instructor to a naughty pupil, “the easiest way to win a fight is to never get hit.”  Swinging your staff, you bring it across the first man’s left knee.  As the ice shatters, you smoothly twirl the stick around and stab the end of it down hard into the Nord’s right foot.  “A concept you only seemed to partially grasp.”  The man falls to his knees, cursing, and you take a swig of the mazte in your left hand.  “See how incapacitating him has only made him angrier?”  He removes a steel dagger from his belt and starts flailing it in your direction.  “You might say he is more dangerous now because he is less predictable.  Truly, the safest option is to make sure he cannot come at you again.”  You kick the man hard in the teeth, and he falls backward, dropping the dagger.

Hooking your staff through the back of the overturned chair, you lift it up and place it on top of the Nord.  You pull your stave out, whirl it over your head, and wallop it into the side of the other still-frozen man.  He falls out of the ice and lands in the chair.  You toss your staff to Finn, and scoop up the abandoned steel dagger.  You swagger over to the two piled-up Nords, taking another draught of your mazte.  The man in the chair struggles to get up, so you quickly hold the sharp edge of the dagger to his throat.  His eyes wide with fear, he stops wiggling.  “Now, how can we ensure they won’t come for us again?”

“Please don’t kill him,” implores Finn.

You click your tongue chidingly.  “That would lack creativity, would it not?  Think, boy!  I have a drink and a dagger.  What can I do to keep him pacified?”

“I…um…hit him with the bottle?”

You pretend to consider it for a moment.  “Well, I could.  But you see, I happen to know this is the last bottle of mazte Ysotte has.”

“Can’t stand the stuff,” she shouts from behind the bar.

“And that would be a terrible waste of my favourite brew.”  You cheerfully take a quick drink.  

Finn narrows his eyes.  “We run away!  No, they would chase.  Call the guards!  We…”  His eyes dart around the room, landing on the jittery musician poking his head out from the kitchen.  “We sing!”

“What?!” exclaims the Nord.  You dig the dagger slightly deeper into the man’s throat, and he whimpers.  

“No but, what?” you ask.

“A tavern singalong.  Everyone likes those.  Right?”  Finn smiles at you with desperate enthusiasm.

Though not the idea you had in mind, you admire Finn’s creativity.  “Bard!” you holler.  “This man would like to make a request.”

“I would?” asks the Nord.

“Indeed.  You see, master bard, they are ever so sorry they interrupted your song.  And they would like it very much if you would play the lute for them, because they are going to sing.”

“Oblivion take you,” mutters the Nord on the floor.

“They are going to sing every word...” you take a dramatic pause, “…of ‘Ragnar the Red’.”  Groans of displeasure from the quartet of Nords are drowned out by laughter from the other patrons.

The musician timidly enters the room with his instrument, idly plucking a couple strings.  He looks too terrified to begin the song.

“Minstrel, if you please.  They are waiting.”  You smile warmly and hold up your bottle.  He begins playing the song and you sing the first line.  “ _Oh there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red…_ ”  Noticing that the Nord is not singing, you remove the knife from his throat.  “If I do not hear every last syllable, you will lose your head.”

You flip the dagger downwards in your hand, and bury it into the wood of the chair.  The blade pierces his trousers, the sharp edge of the weapon right next to the man’s family jewels.  He shout-sings quickly, “ _Who came riding to Whiterun from old Rorikstead!_ ”

“That’s the spirit!”  You gesture at Finn, and he comes over to your side.  “Keep an eye on him, boy.”  Taking your staff back, you start waving the bottle around in time to the music.

Blacktooth and the other two Nords sing bitterly, “ _And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade, as he told of bold battles and gold he had made._ ”

At this point, the grumpy Imperial who previously had lambasted the song joins in.  “ _But then he went quiet did Ragnar the Red, when he met the shieldmaiden Matilda who said…_ ”

From behind the bar, Ysotte lifts her voice up, “ _Oh you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead!  Now I think it’s high time that you lie down and bleed!_ ”

You have made your way back over to Blacktooth, and you teasingly hold out your jug to him.  He goes to take it, but you yank it back and whack him on the hand with your staff.  He snarls, but continues sing-talking atonally, “ _And so then came clashing and slashing of steel, as the brave lass Matilda charged in full of zeal._ ”

Conducting the entire room with your bottle, you join everyone in the final verse, “ _And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no moooore, when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!_ ”

The crowd erupts into cheers and applause as the front doors slam open.  Five city guards burst into the room, accompanied by the old Siben woman.  She points out Blacktooth and his friends.  They move in and begin the arrests.

When they get to the Nord in the chair, he stands up and the chair goes with him, still attached via the dagger.  He walks out with his head held low, the back of the chair thumping him in the leg every other step.  The patrons laugh in delight.  Finn, perhaps out of kindness or perhaps out of desire for a trophy, runs to the Nord and pulls out the dagger.  The chair clunks to the floor, and the guards escort the embarrassed man out of the tavern.

Finn pockets the dagger and smiles up at you.  You nod approvingly.  “Well, that is one way to keep from getting hit.”

Behind you, a low and slightly reproachful voice says, “Oooor that’s how you make enemies for life.”  Turning around, you see the Doctor.  He is sizing up the men being dragged away.

Finn chatters excitedly.  “I knew my Nan would go get help!  I just had to stall them.  Keep talking…”

“I thought you would be pleased,” you say to the Doctor.  “I did not maim a single one of them.  And Finn here...”

“Ash-skin, you will pay,” Blacktooth interrupts as he is taken out.  “You and that mongrel pup are dead.”

You smile sweetly.  “That is ‘Dragonborn Ash-Skin’ to you, Blacktooth the Beardless.”

His eyes betray fleeting fear at the mention of your name, but he quickly regains his anger, and spits at your feet.  “Oi, I’ve had enough of you,” says his guard, and he roughly hauls Blacktooth out the door.

“Finn!” calls the old Siben woman, glowering.

Finn opens his mouth to say something to the Doctor, but stops himself.  He turns to you.  “She looks cross.  I better go.”  He dashes over to the woman, who pulls him away upstairs towards the guest rooms.

“‘Blacktooth the Beardless’, eh?” mutters the bard.  He tests a few notes on the lute.  “Blaaa…no.”  He goes down a few octaves, attempting to use a deeper voice.  “Blaaacktooth.”  He coughs, his voice unable to sustain the lower register.

You and the Doctor share a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	8. Chapter 8

 

At a table in the back parlor, you are eating your long-awaited horker stew.  A copy of _The Doors of Oblivion_ has been left behind, and you are absently flipping through the pages between bites.  You had returned the lexicon cube to the Doctor, and now he sits across from you fidgeting with it like a skooma addict.

Little Mikael has been joined by his sister in his negotiations with the people from Siben.  The refugees are mostly older men and women, speaking in hushed tones with each other, occasionally directing a furtive glance in your direction.  The fire is the only source of light in this room, and the irritated gestures of Ysotte and the Siben representatives are exaggerated by their dancing shadows on the wall behind them.  You can make out the shapes of more people in the far corners of the room, possibly sleeping on the wooden chairs and benches.

Without asking permission, the Doctor sticks a finger in your stew, then puts it in his mouth.  Smacking his lips a few times, his face looks more disgusted with each movement of his jaw.  He takes a drink of your mazte to wash away the flavor.  You turn a page in the book.  “Kindly remove the ants from your trousers, or go sit somewhere else.”

“Hmm?” he asks, his voice a muffled echo in the bottle.

You look up at him.  “You are bothering me.”

He puts the jug down on the table and sits back, his long legs crossed at the ankles.  After a precious few moments of stillness, he leans over to you, his accent particularly gravelly.  “You know, your planet can’t really exist.”

You sigh, and take a bite of the stew.

“Doesn’t that worry you?  Don’t you find that at least a little strange?  Your planet, your world, the ground beneath your feet – impossible?”

“So you mentioned before.”  Paper crackling, you flip another page in the book.  Though his talk of doomed cosmology does not chill you here at the inn as it did down in Blackreach, you find still find the topic distasteful.

The Doctor shifts in his chair, bringing a foot up onto the seat.  “After I checked the barracks, I went back to the TARDIS.  Your planet isn’t on any chart.  Your system not in a single database.”

“This is a business, not a charity!” shouts Ysotte, startling you.  She is glowering at Mikael, who storms out to the common room.

A Siben man, bent over with age, pleads with her.  “But just for one night?  We can go home in the morning…”

The Doctor’s eyes linger on the man briefly, then he continues in that manic, rising-falling voice you are becoming so familiar with.  “This world, the one you call Nirn, cannot be here.  I did a scan, and now the TARDIS can’t find _any_ galaxies anymore.  There is the void, and that’s it.  No stars, not even your sun.  Just vacant.   _Inoccupé_.  The TARDIS sensors can’t sense a thing.  And if the sensors can’t sense, it means…”

You look up from the book.  “The speed your tongue wags, you could power the old Riverwood mill.”

He rubs his face with his hand.  “The coordinates are unintelligible.  All her readouts.  She’s babbling like a baby.  It’s as if we’re, I dunno, outside of the universe.  Of time, even.”

“Doctor, go and talk to your kin.  What are you afraid of?”

He puts his foot back down on the floor and straightens the fabric hanging from his neck.  “What makes you think I’m afraid?”

“You are sat here, spouting nonsense at me, instead of…what do you want from them anyway?”

He looks out into the room.

“You believe them to be your people.  Would that not make them precious to you?”

“Course.”

“And yet earlier at Heljarchen Hall, you did not go with them to Whiterun.”  The Doctor whips his head back at you, his dark eyes warning you to stop talking.  You ignore them.  “You reckon these ‘Nords’ might be the last of your kind.  But you did not escort them to safety.  What does that mean?”

“I went to Blackreach to help _everyone_.”

“Maybe.  Maybe you think you are the lone soul capable enough.  Maybe you like being a hero.”

“Leave it.”

“Whatever the cause, I do not believe you are ready to settle down and be breeding stock.  Do you, Doctor?”

He crosses his arms and says nothing.  You realize you may have offended him, and you are surprised to discover that this fact bothers you.  However, you do not know what to say to fix it, so you look back down at the book and flick over another page.

“Hold on, what’s that?” asks the Doctor.  He is staring at the illustration you just turned to.  The colored sketch depicts a fearsome creature with two curling horns and sharp teeth.  It’s eyes flame with a reflective glow, hinting at unspeakable evils.  It’s body appears skinless, all sinew and bone.

“That’s Molag Bal,” you reply.

The Doctor takes the book from you and studies the picture.  “Molag Bal?”

“He’s the Daedric Prince of Domination.  ‘Harvester of Souls’, ‘Lord of Brutality’, and about half a dozen other unpleasant titles.”  You shovel in another mouthful of stew.

“The Beast,” mutters the Doctor.

“Another Daedric ‘god’ in Oblivion.  His plane is apparently exactly like this one.  A mirror image.  Except all…wrong.”

Ysotte gets loud again.  “I don’t know any of you lot.  You get nothin’ on credit.  You can have the two rooms I’ve already given you, and that’s it.  The rest of you better be out by closing!”  She marches away; the refugees look crushed.

“I’m not as selfish as you think I am,” says the Doctor, rising to his feet.  He starts to walk away from the table, but you grab his hand.

“Wait.  I...”  You soften your voice.  “I used to slay dragons and absorb their undying essences.  Now I paint pictures between naps.”

He takes his hand away from you.  As he walks towards the Siben people, he says, “I always thought watercolours might be nice.”  The Doctor advances toward the old man who had been arguing with Ysotte.  “Ah, yes, hello…”  Upset, the man shakes his head vehemently and sits down on a bench.  Their conversation continues, but you cannot make out what the two of them are saying.

“Your friend won’t get anything from them,” says a woman behind you.  You turn in your chair, and see the young lady from Siben cradling her baby.  She looks exhausted, but the infant gurgles happily.  In her other hand is your old walking staff, which she holds out to you.  “I wanted to return this to you.”

“Keep it.  You may find it useful again.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly.  It’s too beautiful!”  She leans it against the wall next to you.

“Your bairn is well?” you ask, gesturing to the empty seat across from you.

She walks around the table and obligingly sits.  “He couldn’t sleep with all the commotion down here.  Thought I might walk the floor with him a bit.”

“I meant has he recovered from his run-in with the Dwemer spider?  That bolt of electricity on a body so young, it is a miracle he survived.”

“In the end.  He had to re…I used some potions to restore him.”  She looks down at the child wistfully.  “But he came out alright in the end.”

“Potions, eh?  Just a regular healing potion worked out?”

She nods, and gently bounces the baby.  You sense that she is hiding something, and though you typically would care little for such petty intrigue, you feel that some information might help the Doctor.

You take the last bite of your stew, then push the bowl to the side.  “I am sorry.  About your husband.  He was already gone by the time I arrived.”

She sniffs and hugs the bundle to her chest.  “Finn told us.  Dead on the front lawn.”

“He was their teacher, was he not?”  She nods, trying to maintain composure.  You pat her arm, hoping she sees the gesture as a sign of kindly rapport.  “He saved the children.  Hid them away.  I saw him surrounded by metal.  He took down two of those spheres all on his own by the looks of it.  He died bravely in battle.  An end befitting a Nord.”

“Right,” she clears her throat.

“He is singing of it in Sovngarde, I am sure.”

“Of course.”  Her face has gone stony and you cannot read her thoughts.

“Apologies, sera.  I am not trying to make you feel better.  Nothing will.  But you have your son.”  You look down at the baby she has started to gently rock.  “That is worth the sacrifice.”

You sit back in your chair, and lean against the wall.  You watch the Doctor grow increasingly frustrated as every Siben man and woman turns him away.

“I am a Nord,” says the woman next to you.  Her voice is quiet, as if in confidence.  “Clan Shatter-Shield.  If I prove to be valiant, I will go to Sovngarde when I die.  But my husband is not there.  My child, Talos preserve me, will not have a place there either.”  She is speaking so softly now, you have to strain to hear her.  “When the mountain flower wilts, there is little to mourn.  But when it is the Eldergleam Tree cut down in the prime of life…you are an elf.  I’m sure you understand.”

“Do I?” you ask.

“Their group used to be much larger.  Scores of families.  But some of them started to pair off with outsiders.  Like me.”  She gazes down and speaks in a higher voice, as if addressing the child.  “The elders say the blood of my kind dilutes theirs.  But your Da didn’t care, did he, little one?”  The baby smiles.  She looks at you.  “Your friend will not get anywhere with them.  He represents everything they fear.”

In the shadows of the far corner, a figure stands.  “Leave us be, boy!  Haven’t you brought enough trouble down upon our house?”  He walks into the light, and you see a man in a dusty red robe.  You recognize him instantly as the man in the street who warned you away from the Doctor.

“I’m offering you protection!  A sanctuary!” protests the Doctor.

“ _Protection_?  From you?”  The man gestures to the others in his group.  “We know what your kind seeks to do.  Dictate to us, from on high, tell us it’s for our own good!”  Several of the men and women vocalize their agreement.  “But when it comes down to it, you are no better than those who you would ‘protect’ us from!”

The Doctor looks vexed and a little confused.  Desperation is edging into his voice.  He removes the lexicon cube from out of his pocket and holds it up.  “One of you called me!  I came to help!”

The be-robed man pulls out a Nordic war axe.  “No one here called you.”  He throws the weapon onto the table in front him; the metal bites into the wood with a loud clang.  Knowing this action to be a Nordic warrior’s challenge, you jump to your feet, staff at the ready in one hand, fire in the other, and a thu’um prepared in your throat.  The man glances at you, his angry expression now tinged with what could almost be considered pity.  “He does not need you as his bodyguard, little Dunmer.  Ye may believe he does, but it is merely a trick.”  He returns his glare to the Doctor, and places both hands on the table.  “We are not what you think we are.  Leave us.”  His eyes dart down to the axe, then back up.  “Now.”

For a moment, the only sound is the fire crackling in the pit.  Everyone gathered is still, but their shadows skip and play – body doubles oblivious to the tensions and divisions of their owners.

The Doctor looks around the room, utterly dispirited.  His gaze is met with nothing but unmoved faces.  He nods, downcast.  Almost voicelessly, he says, “Yeah.”  The Doctor motions for you to lower your weapon.  You drop your fire spell, and pick up your walking staff that the Nord mother had returned to you.  The Doctor quickly exits to the common room.

Over your shoulder, you say to the woman, “You were born Shatter-Shield.  Do not trust these men to save your child.”  You follow the Doctor out of the parlor.

As you walk by the bar, Ysotte looks up from the mug she’s cleaning.  “Cheerful crew back there.”

“Sanguine,” you reply.  You place your old walking staff on the counter, and run your hand over the rose figure set into the head of the weapon.  “Take this.  It will more than make up for any of their…damages.”

Ysotte looks towards the parlor, then back at the staff.  “Agreed, Dragonborn.”  You nod and head for the front door, walking with the stick you had picked off the rack in Breezehome.

Outside, the Doctor is pacing.  “I tried to tell them, Soldier.  I could take them somewhere else, somewhere safe.”

“I am sorry, sera.”

He holds up the lexicon cube.  “I dunno, maybe I got it wrong somehow.  Do some Nords have two hearts?  Maybe they aren’t…”

“No.  Remember those books and potions in the library?  Not like any normal Tamrielic collection.  Locked away, like they were hiding them.”

He continues speaking, not really listening to you.  “They said they had never heard of Gallifrey!  On their faces – not a glimmer, not an infinitesimal speck of recognition!  When they weren’t being openly hostile, they were just…vacant.”

“Doctor, I was talking to the woman whose baby was shocked.  By the spiders.”

He walks further down the road, agitated.  “Maybe the TARDIS got lost…”

“She said she used a healing potion on the baby.”

“…or confused?  Has certainly happened before.”

“But healing potions don’t work on them!  Remember, the teenage girl I tried to heal in Heljarchen?  You said the potion was not…something…”

He stops pacing.  “Compatible with their biology.   _Our_ biology.”  He pockets the cube.  “Did her baby look different to you?”

“Different how?”

“Had he changed from when you saw him this afternoon?”

“He still looks like a baby, Doctor.  Other than being less crispy…”

The Doctor raises an eyebrow at you, displeased with your description.  “I told Rokvir to give him time to recover.  To regenerate.”

You nod.  Though your grasp of the ‘regeneration’ process is limited to the fragments of the Doctor’s transformations you saw in the Elder Scroll, you understand enough.

He shakes his head, arguing with himself.  “Nooo-yes!  I’m right.  Gotta be.  I _sense_ them, always can.  It’s like...it's like when you have your hat on all day then you take it off but it feels like it’s still there?  With this lot, it’s faint, fainter than usual, but there.”

“Your people are like hats?”

“No nevermind.  Hats are rubbish, forget I said that.  The question _is_ , why are they denying it?”

At a loss for what to say, you let your gaze wander.  A little smile creeps across your face.  “Doctor, look,” you say, pointing at the night sky.  He indulges you, and follows your eyeline.  “The stars are right where we left them.  And the moons.  Not so vacant after all.”

The Doctor grins, his tongue pressed into his upper teeth.  He opens his mouth wider to respond.

But before he can, a male Dunmer materializes out of thin air right next to you.  “Moon-and-Star,” he affirms, amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	9. Chapter 9

(For Funsies - [Click Here for Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGn4Gj2wAOE&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u0Is2FAcHe2h8XDjHbSKjCf))

 “I know it to be so because Azura has seen it.”

“Oh, you commune with Daedric Princes so easily, do you?”  Your sword blade sings against the whetstone.

“Azura, when she wills it.”

“Do you have her over every Sundas for tea?  What a social calendar you must have.”  The Doctor snickers at your comment.

The Dunmer man gamely smiles.  “I cannot help being popular.  I make an excellent bowls partner.”

“By all means, you must be legendary if gods are making house calls for you.”

“Says the Dragonborn,” he responds.

You sigh, and let the whetstone plop into the bucket of water between your legs.  Setting your weapon on the table, you lean forward.  “You cannot be who you claim to be, Telvanni or no.  Your face has not seen more than forty summers, and he would have to be the oldest of our people.”

“Nonsense!  Master Neloth is double my age.  Well, nearly.  He certainly _looks_ it, does he not?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” interjects the Doctor from the corner.  He tosses a jazbay grape in the air and catches it in his mouth.  He is reclining on the back two legs of a chair, with his feet balanced on the seat of another.  There is a book on his lap that he leafed through impossibly fast after picking it up off one of your shelves.

“I thought you were looking for information,” you say to him.

“More creation myths.”  He waves a hand dismissively.

“Azura is no myth,” says the Dunmer, turning in his chair to look at the Doctor.

The Doctor wags his eyebrows, but does not respond.

“This has been a most entertaining evening, but I think it is time for you to leave,” you say.

The Dunmer returns his attention to you.  He throws his hood back and fixes you with an intense gaze.  His black hair is to his shoulders, and his beard is neatly short.  Now that you can see his face clearer, you notice that though he does appear young, his eyes are impossibly old.  “I cannot, Outlander.  Not until my mission is complete.”

Earlier out in the street, after he appeared next to you so suddenly, you let out a “FUS” to put some distance between you and the surprise intruder.  The Dunmer flew back a few yards, but before hitting the ground, he gracefully floated in the air.  As he glided down to his feet, you readied your staff.  He raised his hand and instantly disarmed you.  Your weapon flew right into his grasp.  But rather than attacking you, he held up his other hand in supplication.  You went for your sword, but came up empty, remembering you had left it in your house.

“Please, sera, I mean you no harm.  I greet you warmly.”  Keeping an eye on you, he bent over slightly and dropped your staff to the ground.

Judging by his abilities and the intricately embroidered robe he was wearing, you had guessed him to be a high-ranking mage.  “You do not need my staff to put up a fight,” you said.

He laughed, his voice low and slightly raspy.  “Indeed, Outlander, I do not.  But I am not here to fight.”

Despite the fact that you did not invite either of the men to follow you, both the Doctor and the Dunmer ended up inside Breezehome a few minutes later.  Your staff safely returned, you had set it on the rack, and went about building a fire.  You passed out a few mugs and things, more by habit than by way of genuine welcome.

The Dunmer’s pleasant demeanor clouded over as he began to tell of Dwemer spider and sphere incursions in lands elsewhere.  Morrowind, Hammerfell, High Rock, and even eastern Cyrodiil were being assaulted by Dwarven constructs rampaging above ground.  You took to sharpening your sword, listening incredulously to his story.  When you demanded to know how he learned of this, and who exactly he was, you began to think you were dealing with a madman.

“What is your mission, exactly?” you ask.

With a grand voice, he responds, “To find the Dragonborn and her companion…”

“Oi, companion?” says the Doctor.

“…and bid them make haste to the Red Mountain.  To find the lost Dwemer and stop the invasion.”  The corners of his mouth twitch, as if he is ever-so-slightly enjoying himself.  “In short, sera, to convince you to save us all one last time.”

You lean back in your chair and fold your arms.  “Oh is that all?”

“Companion?” repeats the Doctor haughtily.

“If you are who you claim to be, why does this task come to me?  Surely issues with the Red Mountain fall on your shoulders?”

“What, and deprive the Dwemer of your winning company?  Do I have to put out every fire?” asks the Dunmer.

“Do I?” you counter.

“Azura commands it.  It has to be you.”  He looks over at the Doctor.  “Both of you.”

“I don’t take orders,” responds the Doctor.  “This Azura hasn’t even introduced herself.”

The Dunmer closes his eyes and goes still.  You and the Doctor share a look, and you shake your head.  Picking up the bucket, you rise and walk back towards the kitchen area.  “The Doctor has things to do, and so do I.  Do not force me to be impolite.”  You dispose of the water and put away the whetstone.

The Doctor stands, flings his cloak on, and starts for the door.  As he passes the table, the Dunmer reaches out and grabs the Doctor’s arm.  “You are so big.  So wide-reaching, even Azura cannot see the edges of you.  But it has to be you.”  The Dunmer opens his eyes, and the Doctor wrenches his arm away.  “Time Lord, if you want to save your people, this is your only chance.”

“Who are you?” asks the Doctor, his face hardened in vexation.

You walk back towards the table as the Dunmer raises an arm.  The fabric of his robe falls, and you can see a glistening ring on his finger.  It appears almost to be generating a pale golden light all on its own.

The Doctor shrugs.  “All right, neat bit of kit.  And?”

“Wait,” you say, getting closer.  “I think he is trying to tell us who he is.”  You see a moon and star carved into the ring.  Though your knowledge of artifacts is minimal, your people have not forgotten so quickly the significance of that symbol.  You look into the eyes of the Dunmer.  “You never are.”

“Nerevar.”  The elf smiles.  “Yes, it belonged to him.  I _am_ the Nerevarine.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes.  “Another title?  Is no one called John anymore?”

“We could have used you, muthsera.  When the dragons came.”

“And when the empire faltered, and when the gates opened, and when the mountain exploded.”  The Nerevarine looks at you with unexpected warmth.  “Who says I did nothing?”

“Too much ego for one tiny house, I’d reckon,” says the Doctor, going towards the door again.

You raise a finger.  “Remember how I said the Dwemer disappeared, Doctor?  Well, he might know where they went.”  The Doctor halts and looks at the Nerevarine.

“Ah,” he says apologetically, “that is not entirely true.  I do not retain the memories of my…predecessor.  But, I have been able to piece together the different accounts into something that almost makes sense.”  He gestures at the chair across from him.  “Doctor, this _does_ concern you, and those you seek to protect.  I only ask that you listen.  And if I cannot convince you, then I will go.”

The Doctor hesitates, then relents.  You grab a polishing rag off a table and sit in the chair next to him.  “Be brief, Nerevarine.  Neither of us is blessed with an overabundance of patience.”

The Nerevarine feigns surprise.  “I never would have guessed!  Well then, long ago, in the first era…”

“This is the brief version?” you interrupt.  The Doctor shushes you.

As you polish your blade, the Dunmer tells the story of the War of the First Council.  Some parts you had heard, most you had not.  There was a final skirmish at the Battle of Red Mountain between your ancestors, led by General Nerevar, and the Dwemer.

“Why were they at war?” you ask.

The Nerevarine elaborates – General Nerevar had learned that deep under the mountain, a Dwemer engineer called Kagrenac was working with an artifact of unspeakable power.  This object was suspected to be the heart of the god Lorkhan, and Kagrenac was attempting to twist it to his own uses.  The plan, as far as anyone could understand, was to make a giant metal man.  Called Numidium, scholars claim that the Dwarves were to worship it as a new god, for they had abandoned all the others.  Regardless of Kagrenac’s intentions for his creation, it was an immensely powerful creature, and could wreak terror on the enemies of the Dwemeri empire.

“Giant metal men,” grumbles the Doctor.  “Never a good idea.”

“Indeed.  Something rather sad about golems.  I wonder if they are aware.  Can they feel?” asks the Nerevarine.

“Depends rather on the metal man in question.”

“Can you finish this up?” you interrupt.

The Nerevarine smiles.  “Of course.”  He continues that it has been postulated the Dwemer king Dumac never even knew about Numidium or Kagrenac’s activities under the mountain.  Regardless, General Nerevar called for war on the Dwemer to stop Numidium from being completed.  During the Battle of Red Mountain, General Nerevar journeyed to its depths taking a small band of warriors with him.  He fought Dumac here and won.  After the king’s death, Kagrenac used his specially designed tools on the Heart of Lorkhan.  At that instant, the Dwemer across all the lands vanished.

“What _is_ this Heart of Lorkhan?” asks the Doctor.

“I have seen it,” says the Nerevarine.  “In fact, it was my duty to destroy it a few hundred years ago when someone else tried to use it the same way Kagrenac did.  I had to pick up where General Nerevar left off, I suppose.”

“What did it look like?” presses the Doctor.

The Nerevarine scratches at his beard.  “It looked a bit like the heart of most living creatures on land.  There was light, though.  A shimmering light that surrounded it and was also a part of it.  It was, in a way, beautiful.”  His voice takes on a slightly bitter note.  “It was grotesque, too.  The way those Dwemer had it connected to pipes and all manner of machinations.  I cannot claim to know it’s true purpose, but I know that it had been perverted.”

“How did you destroy it?” you ask.

“I used Kagrenac’s tools.  After which it was consumed by the fires of the mountain.”

“I’m sure it’s safe to go back to Camp Crystal Lake now,” says the Doctor.

“What?” asks the Nerevarine.

“He…he does that,” you respond.  “Doctor, what do you think made all the Dwemer disappear?”

“Dunno.  Would need to know more about this ‘Heart of Lorkhan’,” he says, rolling the ‘r’.

“Some people believe the Dwemer could hear each other’s thoughts.  Communicate with their minds over great distances,” says the Nerevarine.

“Telepathy?  Is this common here?”

The Nerevarine shakes his head.  “No other Mer race has this ability, thankfully.  If you think we like to hear ourselves talk now...”

“What happened to the giant metal man?”

“Also destroyed.  Eventually.”

“So if everything is so ‘destroyed’, why are the Dwemer constructs coming above ground and attacking everyone?” you ask.

“I have yet to hear what this has to do with me,” says the Doctor.

“The Calling is coming through the Elder Scrolls.  To every Dwemer stronghold, orders are being given.  Commands to make ready.  Something is coming back.”  The Nerevarine looks at you pointedly.  “They cannot be allowed to return.”

You feel a chill, and you notice the fire is getting low.  You get up to add a piece of wood.  “You need me to fetch all the Elder Scrolls?  That is impossible.”

“Indeed, that would be.  It is not known how many there are, and there is nowhere safe to hide them.  No, simply ‘blocking up the entrance’, as it were, is not enough.  You must go where the Dwemer have gone and stop them at the source.  Only the Doctor and his machine can take you.”

“I’m not a taxi,” says the Doctor.

“Azura has told me your people live here, yes?  They will not go with you.  You cannot scoop them up and run away with them.”

“No?  Watch me.”

“Doctor…” you say.

“No.”  He stands.  “I’ll talk to them again.  Make them see reason.  If they would just listen…”

A quiet yet rapid knock at the door interrupts the debate.  You quickly rise, sword in hand, and go to answer.  “Who beckons?” you ask.

“It’s me!” a voice loudly whispers.

Confused but not alarmed, you open the door.  Standing on the front step is an adolescent boy, furtively looking up and down the street.  “Finn?” you say.  Without being asked inside, he pushes through the doorway and into your common room.  “Has positively everyone lost their manners?” you ask no one in particular.

“I had to come!” he says, rushing over towards the Doctor.

“I don’t think your old gran would like it if she knew you were here,” the Doctor responds.

“She won’t know.  Not yet anyway.  But I needed to find you, to see if it is real.”

The Doctor shakes his head.  “Finn…”

“To see if _what_ is real?” you ask.

“All of it!”  The boy excitedly strides around the table.  “The stories, are they true?  Are we really travelers from another world?  Are there ships that can go to the stars?  Move through time like waves on the sea?”

The Doctor rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the floor.

“A whole different race, a different species!  Thousands of us?  Millions?”

“Not anymore,” the Doctor responds.  He takes a deep breath and quietly continues.  “We were, once, a great society.  Yes, millions.  But they’re gone.  All of them.  Except me.”  He looks up at the boy.  “And now, maybe you.”

“I knew it!”  The boy rushes over to the seat you abandoned and throws himself in it.  “Teacher taught us, you know.  The elders, they don’t like the young ones knowing the truth.  But the Teacher would show us things in the library.  In secret.  Stuff about other worlds, and where we came from.  He thought we should know our history.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Incredible tales.  My friends all say I’m thick to believe them, that it’s horker rot for bairns, but why would the Teacher lie?  He told me we lived in great, shining cities unlocking the secrets of the universe.  That we were brilliant and noble and wise…”

“Not all of us,” responds the Doctor.

“…oh,” says Finn, clearly trying not to look disappointed.

A shadow passes over the Doctor’s face, but dissolves into enthusiasm.  “Aw, but we could be!  Sometimes, we really were that brilliant.”

“And noble?” asks Finn.

“And noble.”

“And wise?”

The Doctor audibly exhales, a grin forming at the corner of his mouth.  “Sometimes.”

“Why are we on this world, then?” Finn asks.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Finn shakes his head.  “The Teacher never told us.”

“Maybe he did not know either,” you say.

“The elders know.  Or at least, I think they do.  It’s why they…”  Finn looks down.  “Why I’m not to talk to you.”

“You renegade,” you say, amused.

The Doctor glances at you, then places a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Lad, you should…”

“Take me with you,” Finn implores.  The Doctor shakes his head and opens his mouth, but Finn continues.  “Please, let me come.  The others won’t, they will never leave.  They hate you.  I don’t know why.”  Finn turns to you.  “Please Dragonborn, tell him.  You know what they’re like.”

You can tell that the Doctor is wavering.  For your part, you are not sure if it is wiser for Finn to go with the Doctor (and all the danger that seemingly entails,) or to stay with the intolerant Siben settlers.  “Curious, your people.  They never have been exactly friendly to strangers, but to hate their own kind as well?  What has made them this way?”

The Doctor continues studying the adolescent and does not answer you.

“Take me with you.  Let me be a Time Lord,” says Finn.

“You can’t.”  The Doctor sniffs and takes his hand off Finn’s shoulder.  “The Academy is gone.”

“But Doctor…”

“Kaput!   _Finito_ , Finn.  All of Gallifrey has fallen, and with it, any hope of restoring…”  The Doctor looks at the Nerevarine.  The Dunmer nods his head ever-so-slightly, pity in his eyes.  “The Dragonborn and I have an errand to run.  We can discuss this later.”

“Let me see your ship then!  Before you go.”

“I dunno if…”

“Aw, go on,” you say.  “Let him have a look.  We need it for that ‘errand’ anyway.”

The Doctor seems surprised at your willingness to indulge Finn, but gives in.  “Fine…”  Finn claps a hand on the table with ardor.  “ _Just_ a look-see.  My cab is full-up for the next trip.”

Finn and the Doctor make for the door.  “I need a moment.  I will catch up,” you say.  The Doctor nods and herds the ecstatic adolescent out of the house.  When they have left, you turn to the Dunmer.  “Nerevarine, what awaits us at Red Mountain?”

“All is fire and ash, muthsera.  It is why you must take his ship.  Not even the surliest Orc smith has the capability to build any vessel that can withstand the flame.”

“He is no warrior.  I do not believe it right to use him as a carriage driver.  Surely you are much better equipped to stand by my side.”

“Such a compliment!”  The grave expression on his face swiftly changes to a disarming grin.  “Soon, I have no doubt.  I look forward to seeing you in action.  For now, my task is to prepare.”

“For?”

“For your failure.”

“What?”

The Nerevarine looks over his shoulder towards the door and takes a step closer to you.  He removes an amulet from his neck.  Hanging from a simple leather strap, the strange spindly charm is colored red and blue.  “Just a precaution, of course.  In case you cannot stop the Dwemeri invasion, I must make ready.”  He loops the necklace around your neck.  “Amulet of Recall.  I have set the Mark for here.  If you have need, clasp it in your hand and focus your energies upon it.  It will transport you here to this very spot.”

Your mouth gapes wide.  “Does that ancient magic still yet work?  Those spells are thought lost to time…”

“ _Nchow_!” he laughs.  “Must you always harp upon my age?”

You feel your cheeks redden, and you cast your eyes down sheepishly.  “Apologies, sera.”

He sighs, and runs a finger over the amulet charm.  “Ah, pay no mind.  I _am_ that old.”  Hearing the wistfulness tingeing his voice, you look back up at him.  “I just…forget.”  He steps away from you and clears his throat.  “Now we must depart.  I will accompany you to his ship.  Have you all that you need?”

“How can I know?  What will I face?”  You buckle on your belt, and slide the sword into its sheathe.

“I cannot be sure.  But I would pack for battle.”

You hurry over to a chest in the alchemy room, and grab an assortment of potions.  Your bag is soon heavy, clanking like in the old dragon-hunting days.  From the weapons rack, you retrieve your staff.  So prepared, you both exit and lock up.

Outside, you head East.  “Come, I know a shortcut.”  The streets are empty as you head towards Jorrvaskr.  The fabled mead hall of the Companions cuts an impressive profile, even at night.  After climbing the steps, you turn North.  “If anyone is inside, you are my manservant.  Understood?”

“You know, I rather like the sound of that.”

Before reaching the stone door of the Underforge, you hear dull whacks coming from behind the hall.  You glance over and see a figure laying into a training dummy with a sword.  He or she is measured with their swings, consistently hitting the straw man in the same spot.  You feel a small twinge in your chest, thinking about the last time you stood in the training yard.  

It was late summer.  The hold was finally starting to cool after weeks of oppressive heat.  You had come from Heljarchen to conduct Harbinger business.  Vilkas had a contract he needed your assistance with.  Athis and Ria were having drinks in the great hall.  Aela was breaking in a few wet-ear recruits.  An ordinary day.

As you were leaving, you halted in the training yard to watch the young scrappers brawl.  Aela was shouting advice to a particularly green Breton who was having trouble with his shield.  “You’ll break your arm if you keep flailing it like that!”  You shared a laugh as he attempted a shield bash against his much larger Nord opponent.  The Nord, unmoved, just blinked.  Aela turned to you.  “Soon it’ll be your lad here, training with the Shield-Brothers.”

You had sighed, shook your head.  “I fear the whelp will never be ready.”

“Oh?” she said, surprised.

“Soft, sensitive.  No blood in him.  More fit to sing songs in the mead hall than drink in it.”

There was a pause.  The normally blunt Aela seemed to search for the right thing to say.  “Perhaps he’ll grow out of it.  Or train to be a smith.  There is much honor fashioning the arrow used in the hunt.”

The Nord knocked the Breton down into the dirt.  A thin red stream dribbled from his nose, and he reached his hand up to dab at it.  “Arkay’s ass,” he grumbled.

“Ale’s on you,” said the Nord, and he reached his hand out.

The Breton smirked and took the hand.  “Yeah yeah, who’s countin?”

The Nord helped him up.  You watched them walk towards you.  Aela spoke again.  “Maybe even work the Skyforge one day.”

The pair of recruits walked past.  The Breton nodded to you in respect.  “Hail Dragonborn,” said the Nord.

You had turned to go.  “No blood in him at all.”

The Nerevarine interrupts your memory.  “At this time of night?  Bit nocturnal.”

You gaze a little longer at the figure in training, realizing you no longer know all the current members of the Circle.  “Some Companions are rather dedicated.  Come.”

The Underforge is empty.  The Nerevarine gazes at the stone fountain at the center of the room, but does not comment.  You lead him through the back passageway and out into the open countryside.

As you pass Battle-Born Farm, you look up at the dark sky.  “Dawn soon.”

“Less than an hour,” agrees the Nerevarine.

“Tell me, sera, is this the last one I shall ever see in Tamriel?” you ask, startling even yourself with your candid inquiry.

“What makes you think I would know something like that?”

“Azura told you more than you are letting on.  Are the Doctor and I going to fail?”

The Nerevarine glances over at you with a mixture of surprise and discomfort.  “Are you suddenly putting more faith into Daedric Princes?”

“No more or less than any other powerful creature.  ‘Wuldsetiid los tahrodiis’, as an old friend would say.  It would be foolish of me to ignore insights, if Azura offers any, just because I doubt her omnipotence.”

“Is that your companion’s vessel up ahead?” he changes the subject, pointing at the blue box in the distance.

“Yes, but…”

“Curious, is it not?  No sail, no wings…”

You stop walking.  “S’wit, I will not have you treat me like one of your Telvanni hirelings, off to do your bidding because you have willed it.”

He also halts and turns to you, his face grave.  “No, I would not have that either, Dragonborn.”  He lowers his voice, as if afraid the stars will hear.  “You are mortal, though you have the will of immortals in your head.  Heed their whispers, Dovah.  You bleed just as easily as I.”

“Legends say _you_ live forever,” you respond.

“But we know better, don’t we?”  He holds his arm out formally, as if a Duke at a ball.  “Shall we?”

You feel tiny stirrings of being charmed.  “No, I have my staff, thank you.”  The rest of the journey to the TARDIS is silent, and you appreciate that fact.

Before you can knock, the door swings open.  Golden light cuts through the surrounding darkness, and it takes your eyes a moment to see Finn beckoning you in.  “Dragonborn, look!  The Teacher was right!”  He runs back into the glow.

You hear the hum as before, and this time you step through the threshold.  The space is unlike anything you have experienced before – impossibly big to be held in such a confined box.  The floor is hard metal, yet the room is warm and inviting.  The Doctor’s cloak is tossed carelessly on an orange-yellow pillar that seems to be growing out of the floor.  You lean your staff and bag against the pillar while looking closer; your brain struggling to decipher organic from mineral.  The Doctor stands talking to Finn in front of a round table-like object with buttons and levers of all sorts.  There are lights and panels in a dizzying array, noises with unknowable sources, and the surprisingly pleasant smell of a smokeless fire, like a star being perpetually made and unmade.  You start to worry that it all might overwhelm you, so you try to concentrate on their conversation.

“A place with colour.  Somewhere that isn’t just white and gray and boring.  Are there worlds like that, Doctor?” asks Finn, running a hand through his ginger hair.

“Course.  There are blue ones, orange ones, I’ve even been to one that changes colour based on the mood of their ruler, the High Empress Thunoraoxipli.  Hold that switch there,” the Doctor instructs.  Finn obliges, and the Doctor continues, his voice animated.  “Great parties!  You could fit their entire population in your pocket.  Which you shouldn’t, if you’re allergic to pollen…”

“Are there red worlds?”

“Universe is full of red planets.  Can’t get away from ‘em.  All right, let go of that now.”  Finn moves away from the console as the Doctor continues busying himself.  His voice lowers almost imperceptibly.  “Our world, Gallifrey, is…was…well it looked red from space.  All that ruby grass, and the atmosphere.”

The Doctor punches another button and glances up at you, his face serious but eyes glad.  “All right?”  You find that you have no words, so you nod once.

“I think that is where I should like to go.  A red plane-it,” says Finn as he charges down some stairs and rushes out a doorway that you had not even noticed was there.

“Hey!” shouts the Doctor after him.  “No wandering off!”  You hear Finn’s heavy footsteps clang away.  The Doctor mutters to himself, “I do the running around here.”

You look behind you to see The Nerevarine still at the entrance, apparently unwilling to come in.  You walk over to him.  “Do not worry.  It is safe.”  A loud, unworldly squeal emanates from the table in the center of the room.  “…I think.”

The Nerevarine shakes his head.  “It looks to me like an instrument of the Dwemer.  The sound of those machines, that _green_ …”  He points at the console where the Doctor stands, and you notice that the green light radiating from its surface does resemble the green glass of the oculory.  “It is the color of unfettered ambition, of going too far.  No, Dragonborn, even with your charms, I shall stay under the sky.”

Soft shoes thud towards you.  “Funny, I always thought of it as the color of escape.  And pistachio pudding.”  The Nerevarine looks at you, perplexed, and you just sigh.  The Doctor adds, as if to help, “Who knew that you could get tired of unlimited rice pudding?”

“Doctor, do you know where we are going?” you ask.

“I have done a scan and found a volcano on an island east of here.  I assume this is your Red Mountain?”

The Nerevarine tilts his head.  “‘Volcano’?  What a marvelously evocative word.  The mountain of fire is practically a direct shot to the east from here, as the dragon flies.”

“So we get to this mountain.  Then what?”

“Ah, well, yes.  You will need one more thing.  An Elder Scroll.”

“Doctor, do you have the one from yesterday?” you ask.

The Nerevarine interrupts, “No, you need a specific one.  Wait here, I will be back presently.”

The Doctor frowns.  “What?  Where are you…”

The Dunmer mage quickly casts a spell, and disappears.

“What?” repeats the Doctor.

You hold a hand out where the Nerevarine had been standing, and feel nothing but air.  “Not an invisibility spell.  I believe he cast…”

Before you can finish your sentence, he reappears, his shoulder under your hand.  “I am encouraged, sera.  Such intimacy!”  You pull your hand back, letting out an exasperated breath.  The Nerevarine grins.  “Rather than carry this heavy thing all over Whiterun, I thought it best to just leave it and fetch when necessary.”  He holds out a rolled up Elder Scroll, dustier than the one you brought from Blackreach, but otherwise similar in appearance.

“Why this one, specifically?” asks the Doctor, taking it with both hands.

“That is the one called _CHIM_.  While I would thrill at the chance to bestow upon you another history lesson in my dulcet tones, we do not have the time.  But it is the one most capable of making the reality you need.  Dragonborn, I suspect you know what a Time-Wound is.”

“Yes.  There is one atop the Throat of the World…”

“And just like before when you used it to travel to the past, you will do similarly again.  In the bowels of Red Mountain, where the Heart of Lorkhan once resided, there is another Time-Wound.  I believe it was created when Kagrenac vanished the Dwemer.  Go to the Citadel of Dagoth Ur, deep under the mountain.  Find the Time-Wound and open the Elder Scroll.  Beyond that, I can offer no further guidance.”

“Right, well, we’ll be off then!” says the Doctor briskly.  He jogs back to the console and tosses the Elder Scroll on a chair.  “Close the door will ya?”

“Lok, Thu’umme.” says the Nerevarine, laboring over the Dovahzul pronunciation.  ( _“Sky above, voices within.”_ )

“‘Lok, Thu’um’ is the customary phrase,” you respond, amused.  “Singular.”

He puts his hood up, shading his face from the light of the TARDIS.  “Indeed I am not fluent in Dragon as you are, Dovahkiin.  But I am certain about what I meant.”  He bows slightly, and shuts the door.

Behind you, the noises increase in frequency and loudness.  The whole room begins to shake.  “He can make himself disappear.  Wait till he sees this,” mutters the Doctor.  Then he shouts, “Hold on!”

You grab a metal bar near you.  “How many days will the journey take, Doctor?  Where will I sleep?”

“Um,” he responds.  He pulls a lever, and the light encased in glass begins to move up and down.  The room is assaulted by a great wheezing cacophony and you wonder if your ears might burst.  You are filled with a sudden longing for home, your characteristic desire for adventure perhaps not a match for this entirely unfamiliar experience.  Your staff falls down with a piteous wooden clatter and rolls about on the platform.  The Doctor runs around the circular table, pressing this and that.

Then suddenly, it stops.

The Doctor pulls a metal square towards him and looks at it’s face.  “You could sleep, if you like.  But I thought we’d have a look at this volcano.  What do you think?”  He motions you over.

You release your grip on the bar and take a few tentative steps towards him.  Your gait is unsure, as if at any moment the solid floor will turn to waves.  When you make it to the table, you hold onto its edge.  “I do not know how you can bear…oh.”  You catch sight of what is ‘on’ the metal square – an image of fire and rock bubbling away.  “What is this?  A painting that moves?”  You hold your hand out but cannot bring yourself to touch it, afraid the fire will burn.

The Doctor smiles.  “Video.  This is the viewer – I can see what’s outside the TARDIS without having to leave the comfort of my sofa.”  He grabs the metal square and moves it around.  “See?  Just a screen.  Perfectly safe.”

You press two fingers onto the image of the fire and discover it is cool to the touch.  It feels like normal glass.  You stutter to find your tongue.  “Is…is this normal?  On your world?”

“Pft,” the Doctor puffs.  “This is nothing.  You should see what we’d do with sock puppets.”

“This is incredible Doctor.  I mean…”

“Oh sure, one minute you’re outside Whiterun talking to old Neverwhatsit, the next you’ve travelled thousands of miles away to the insides of an active volcano, and it’s the telly you’re impressed with?”

“Bit of a braggart, are we?” you needle.

He straightens up.  “Am not.”

“So this fire, this melted rock, is all outside your box right now?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p’.

“But it’s _wood_.  How are we not dead?”

“Oh, I’ve put up a…sort of…invisible shield thingy…look just come and see.”

He gallops to the front, and you follow as quick as you are able, your legs still apparently unwilling to believe the floor is reliable.  The Doctor flings open the door and there it is – a gigantic cavern overrun with fire and smoke.  Huge rock formations are eaten and liquefied white hot.  Despite all the flame, you feel only a vague warmth emanating from the surroundings.  The air is still fresh and breathable.

“The TARDIS is protecting us, of course.  The noxious fumes alone would be enough to…” he breathes in sharply, and his voice changes.  “Oh hello.  What’s this?”  He points at large tower of rock, far away from the lava in the chamber.  It looks different from the other stone, as if it might have once been carved.

“Remnants of the Dwemer citadel, I suppose.  Though how it has survived this long…”

“I…no…what?”  He shakes his head vehemently.

“Doctor?  Something the matter?”

He studies the chiseled pillar with apprehension.  “I get the weird feeling…impossible.”  He rubs his face, as if to clear his thoughts.  “Anyway, _that_ is what we have come to find, I wager.”  He points at another part of the chamber.  You can see a place where the fire and smoke warps; an invisible force is keeping them away.  “The TARDIS found a crack in reality.  A place where the walls of time are weaker.  Your Time-Wound I presume?”

You nod.  “I think.  It looks like the one on the Throat of the World, anyway.”

“She doesn’t want to get much closer, but we can’t exactly walk over there.”  He bounds back to the control panels.  “Let’s see what she makes of this.”  He pulls a long twine-like object out from under the table, its utility unknown to you.  The end of it is apparently sharp, as he is able to somehow plunge it into the casing of the Elder Scroll.  The TARDIS squeals in response.

You gaze out at the Time Wound.  “The Dwemer cannot still be alive, can they Doctor?  After all these centuries?  Not _really_.”

“Something powerful created that rift.  Kagrenac could have sent his people anywhere.  Or when.”

“But why would he?”  There is no response to your question, so you glance over your shoulder.  He is studying his viewer with consternation.  “Doctor?”

Without taking his eyes off the metal box’s glass face, he moves a hand over to a lever.  “Power-hungry engineer who is willing to risk the death and destruction of his own people?  Hmph.”  He pushes a button.  “I do know this – geniuses can get it wrong.  Hell, even Time Lords.”  He pulls the lever.  

Your legs were right not to trust the floor; it has gone all wobbly again.  Stumbling towards the center of the room, you notice the loud noise seems even fouler than before.  You take a bad step and fall.  Your vision blurs…

How the Doctor’s red feet scurry, as if carrying out the duties of ten men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	10. Chapter 10

For Funsies -  [ Click Here For Mood Music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMS2D3NvqTw&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u1n4L8Ve5AOBZYPK38oiNQa)

All around, as far as the eye can see, is dull brown.  Dirt and small rocks, puffs of dust that should cause a cough, if you could breathe.  Which you cannot.

There are mountains in the distance, the peaks of which are the same dreary beige as everything else.  They are not spewing ash, like the Red Mountain, nor are they topped with snow like the ones in Skyrim.

You perceive a settlement, or at least a small group of wooden buildings.  More like shanties and the temporary caravans of the Khajiit than anything fit for living in properly.  The sun is shining too brightly in your eyes to be able to make out much else.  Or rather, both suns.  You shade your face and blink.

Now you are amongst the structures and there are people around you.  They are dressed as typical Nords, animal hides and summer furs.  Several men are gathered together holding spears, leather bands looped around their heads.  Two cloaked women are trying to rile them up, incite them to action.  From somewhere nearby, a man mutters, “Would they lift a finger to help us?  Up there in their shiny tower?”  Standing in the opening to one of the shacks is a red-haired woman holding a baby.  Her dirty face reminds you of someone.  She is regarding the proceedings with sharp eyes, clearly distrustful of the two in robes.

You hear a powerful female voice in conversation. Is it one of the two in robes?  “Are you prepared to abandon walking in case you squash an insect underfoot?”  No, she is somewhere else.

“Soldier?” calls a man, distantly.  “Soldier!”  The suns seem to glow even brighter, and the people around you are blotted out of your sight in a blaze.

“Sould-jyah!” pronounces the Doctor, his accent thicker this time.  Your shoulder is shaking, and you open your eyes.  Lifting it from your arm, he offers his hand to you.

The suns are gone, as is the dust, the mountains, people.  Instead, you are lying on the cold metal floor of the TARDIS.  “Threw us both for a loop, but we’re here all right.”

You take his hand and slowly rise.  “Where is ‘here’?”

He shakes his head.  “Still in the void.  Beyond that…”  He glances over at the door, then back to you.  He quirks his eyebrow.  “We could just go have a look round.”

The door squeaks open, and the Doctor is silhouetted by firelight.  However, it is not the same raging quality of the flames from inside the Red Mountain as before.  The light is dimmer, and the Doctor’s lean shadow dances around the TARDIS.  “Some sort of cave?” he says, and steps out.

Your muscles are stiff from the tumble and you gingerly bend over to fetch your staff.  “It’s always a cave.”  You put on an Imperial accent.  “‘Oh hail Dragonborn!  Yes, I am conveniently forgetting how busy you probably are and would you please run along to some skeever-splat hole in the ground halfway to High Rock to find my lost Handkerchief of Hurty Feelings?  It is probably lightly guarded by fifteen chaurus hunters and a Dragon Priest.  Thanks ever so.’”   


“Feel better?”  The Doctor’s voice echoes.

You head for the door, continuing with the foppish accent.  “‘What?  Me, get it myself and leave the Cloud District?  Perish the thought…’”  The sight of the space ahead makes you immediately lose your words.

Outside of the TARDIS, you see that the glow is coming from several large braziers lining the walls of the cave.  However, ‘cave’ is too tiny a word to do the place justice.  The metal braziers are hundreds of yards away on either side, but you can see relatively well enough around you.  The TARDIS is resting on a landing that overlooks stone walkways, bridges, and corridors.  Coming from an unseeable source miles above is a pale blue light, throwing into relief more walkways over your head.  You can hear water cascading somewhere in the darkness behind you.  The air is moving and somewhat warm, like you were taking a stroll through The Rift on a sunny afternoon.  The mineral smell reminds you momentarily of Blackreach.

But it is not like Blackreach.  There are no glowing mushrooms swaying in the drafts, no glittering rocks or artificial suns.  Only the fires and massive raw stone.  Though it is impossible to have an accurate sense of space here, it occurs to you that this cavern could quite possibly be much larger than the Dwarven cities of old.

“Doctor,” you whisper.

“I know,” he responds, his voice low.

You breathe in, and summon a thu’um.  “LAAS YAH NIR.”  In the corner of your eye, for the briefest second, you think you can detect a glowing aura.  Perhaps far below you, on some unseen level or platform, but it disappears so quickly, it could have simply been your eyes adjusting to the darkness.  It is certain however, there is no living thing nearby.

“We are alone,” you say to the Doctor, resuming your normal speaking level.  You gesture with your staff.  “Shall we?”

You take a step out onto the walkway in front of you, but the Doctor holds up a hand.  “No wait, shh.”  He shakes his head hard.  “No no no, wait, I can hear…”  He closes his eyes and sniffs, his hand still held up.  For your part, the only sound you notice is the nearby waterfall, but you dutifully stand as quietly as you can.  Several seconds go by, then he shakes his head again.  “It’s gone.”  He opens his eyes and drops his hand.  “Just an echo.”

“What did you hear?” you ask.

“I heard…hear isn’t the word for it.  I thought I sensed something familiar.”  He straightens up.  “No matter.  Onward.  We’ve got to go this direction whatever we decide.”

You cross the walkway and go under an arch.  A small stone face looks blankly down at you.  Through the arch is a narrow corridor that leads to a spiral stone staircase.  

“Up or down?” you ask. 

“‘From light, protection,’” says the Doctor.

You turn around.  “What?”

The Doctor takes out his screwdriver and uses the light to illuminate the gray wall.  Now you can see some carved indentations, and the Doctor runs a finger over them.  “Same circles as the oculory.  Cruder, though.  Like someone was in a hurry…”

“What do you think it means?”

He pushes air out through his lips like an oral shrug.  “Maybe they’re sheltering from harsh conditions?  A hostile sun?”

“Hostile sun?”

“Not all stars are friendly.”  He waves his screwdriver towards the stairs.  “I think we’d better stick to underground, for now.”

Winding your way down, you see the occasional landing or bridge extending out into the flickering abyss.  Unlike the abandoned Dwemer ruins you are accustomed to, there are no stone seats or benches.  No pottery littered about or goblets fashioned in their distinguishable style.  If the Dwarves did indeed end up here, it would appear they did not make themselves at home. 

Though your thu’um detected no living presences nearby, you and the Doctor seem to come to some sort of agreement that silence is best.  But after nearly a half hour of wordless descending, your leg feels ready to give way at any moment.  “Doctor, I do not believe I can handle the stairs for much longer.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to.  Listen.”

The clack-thunk of your staff-assisted footsteps is no longer the loudest sound.  Like when you first exited the TARDIS, you can now hear falling water somewhere nearby.  You feel warmer, though you are not sure if it is from a higher temperature or your personal exertion.  “Azura let there be chairs,” you murmur.

A few dozen steps later, you reach the bottom.  There are two archways, and the Doctor raises his screwdriver to inspect the one on the left.  “Once again, ‘From light, protection’.  More scratches.”

“The water seems to be that way as well.  If Dwemer are camped somewhere, might they have chosen to stay near it?”

He hops over to the arch on the right, apparently not at all fatigued from the stair climb.  “I think, I think it’s ‘purpose’?  ‘From tone, purpose’.  Or maybe ‘potential’…”

“Whatever the case, I need a drink.”  You walk through the left arch into a massive chamber.  Your eye is drawn to a shimmering pool off to the side of the room.  The water you have been hearing is flowing from somewhere above into a simple stone bowl about ten feet in diameter.  There are no ornaments or decorations; rather you are taken by the beauty of the water itself.  The color of a luna moth’s wing, it seems to be throwing off a gentle glow.  Your parched throat wills your tired legs to move faster towards the basin.

The sound it makes is sweet, like mead in your ears.  In fact, now that you are drawing closer, it does not sound as falling water does.  It whooshes and sings, beckoning you closer.  You drop your staff, wanting all obstacles out of your way.  You no longer wish to simply drink it, you want to get into the pool.  Bathe in It, be consumed by It, incorporated into Its essence.  You climb up onto the ledge and begin to step forward…

Arms clasp around your waist and yank you backwards.  You struggle, like an infant being pulled away from a favourite toy.  “Thirsty!  I want It!”

A voice is shouting at you, but all you hear is the song of It.  The arms overpower you and you fall off the ledge.  Your attacker tries to keep you on your feet, but you are still too enthralled.  Kicking and grunting, you both go down.  Your head knocks on the stone floor.  Pain jabs your ears, and for a moment all is red. 

Then you are released.  The water stops calling.

You roll off the Doctor, a bit confused and embarrassed.  “Elbow in the ribs for my trouble.  Thanks for that,” he grouses.

“I…I am not…”

“Couldn’t you hear me shouting?  ‘Don’t drink the water,’ I said.”

“It was…”  Your jaw hangs open as you struggle to explain what came over you.

“You know,” he says, rising to his feet.  “I don’t think it’s water.  I’m not sure it’s even liquid.”  He takes out his screwdriver and runs it above the pool.

“It was pulling me in somehow.  Like…a cold drink on a hot day.  But no, not even to drink.  More than that.”

“What?” he says absent-mindedly.  He bangs his screwdriver on his hand and it whirrs differently. 

You shakily stand back up and retrieve your staff.  “There is something strange happening here, Doctor.  I have never wanted  _ anything _ in my life so much as I wanted to swim in that water.”

“Wellll…” he holds the screwdriver up to his face.  “It isn’t water, for a start.  This is plasma.  Medium-density at a guess.  Like you’d find in a nebula.  Though what it’s doing here…”

“Plassim?  Nebu…kindly mark, I am not one of your fancy friends whizzing about in the sky.  Talk plainly.”

He sighs, annoyed, then speaks quickly.  “Nebulae are like big clouds in space.  Cradle for stars, nursery of the universe.  And plasma is some of the stuff making those stars.  But this goo here…”  He puts one foot on the ledge and leans over the pool.  “…I don’t know what it’s for.”

You rub your head, irritated at the Doctor for being exasperated with you.  “Does it have to be  _ for _ anything?  What’s water for?  What’s creep cluster for?”

“Oh, creep cluster often makes you kick your friend in the shins, does it?”

“Friend?”  You shake your head and walk away, ostensibly to see what else is in the chamber.  Internally, you try to dismiss his use of the word, comparing it to a Khajiit salesman buttering up a customer.  Surely it is a nothing term, something to throw out as shorthand for Someone Not Actively Trying to Kill Me.  Your life is populated with dozens of these acquaintances, mostly the offspring of people you did once care for.  You have outlived all your real friends, save Paarthunax.  And while you enjoy the hours spent conversing with the dragon, he is not a creature you go out with for a friendly pint.

Neither is the Doctor, you surmise.  

No, he will get in his box and fly away and that will be the end of it.  He has friends, proper comrades, you have seen them.

Where have they gone?

None of your business, you decide.  There are more braziers to your right and on the far wall lighting your way.  However, even their mighty flames are not bright enough to illuminate a ceiling, if there is one.  Centered on the wall is a rock carving of a face, fifty or sixty feet tall, regarding you with dispassionate eyes.  A few hundred yards ahead are some stairs leading up to a giant stone door.  Fire glints against a long piece of metal set into the side of the doorframe, and you make your way over to investigate.

As you get closer, you can see a primitive mural painted onto the rock face all around the metal piece.  They seem to be divided into six sections and depict scenes with crude figures in black or deep crimson.  One creature, all teeth and claws, seems particularly ferocious in the flickering red light.  You find that you want to look away.

“Doctor,” you say quietly.  “Some curious ancient cave paintings, here.”  He continues to busy himself with the plasma pool.  “At least, I believe them to be ancient.  I do not recognize the likenesses…”

He pushes off the ledge and briefly uses an oddly upper-class Imperial accent.  “Thing I always wonder about ‘ancient hollows’.”  You are not sure if that was meant to elicit a response from you or if it was just another one of his incoherent statements.  He meanders in your general direction, examining his surroundings. 

Ignoring him, you tap your staff on the metal bar sticking out from the wall.  The rod slides easily down a few inches and you hear a shuddering grind from behind the stone.  “Lever.”

“Don’t you want to know?”  He is walking over to the left side of the door frame, about thirty-five feet away.

“Might open the door,” you continue.

“Could be important.  Thing about old  _ abandoned _ caves like this.”

You cross your hands and lean on your staff.  “What?” you say flatly.

“Who lights the torches?”  He pulls his lips together into a thin line and briefly widens his eyes.

“S’wit, honestly.  Just ask next time.”  You lower your voice to a whisper and use your quietest shout.  “LAAS YAH…”  You do not even bother with the third word of the thu’um as you can immediately see the auras of several life forms on the other side of the door.  “Yes, as you clearly guessed, there is something in there.”

The Doctor strides up closer to his side of the stone arch, eyes fixed on something.  There is a small smirk playing on his face.

“You are pretty pleased with yourself.  Would it  _ please _ you to rap upon the door or shall I?”  Before he is able to reply, you pull down on the lever and assume a ready stance.  But instead of the door opening, you hear the knocks of heaving machinery above your head.  You look up and see great panes of glass lowering towards you, backlit by a pale blue light.  Somewhat similar to the device in the oculory, the glass is suspended from rods and cut into circles.  However this is more rudimentary in construction; the circles have no intricate designs nor even particularly secure fastenings to their poles.  You duck out of the way as it settles into position.

“Made of chewing gum and spit, that one is.”

“Doctor, something odd,” you say as he goes back to examining his side of the wall.

“This lot and puzzles?  Someone should introduce them to crosswords.”

“With all that loud noise, the auras on the other side of the door have not moved much.  They do not seem alarmed at all.”

“Why should they be?  We’re just tourists come to…soldier, are those circles pointing at anything?”

The blue light is being filtered through one glass pane and thrown onto the wall in front of you, highlighting one of the painted scenes.  There are three more glass circles hanging limply down.  You draw closer to the wall.

“Black figures under a red triangle.  One of the figures is bigger, is holding or touching a circle.  Reddish gold circle.”  The primitive depictions have little detail and you are mystified as to what they could represent.

“‘Red mountain,’” says the Doctor.

“Well, I suppose it could be a depiction of the Red Mountain.”

“No, that’s what it says here.”  He gestures at the wall in front of him.  “A list of four phrases carved in the circular language.”  He bounds over to the hanging machine and starts to pull on the metal rods.  They creak and groan but seem as if they were built with the express purpose of being moved around.  With his back to you, he says, “The next one was hard to decipher.  Translates to something like ‘Frozen Port’.  Any of them look like that?”

You inspect the remaining five tableaus.  “None of them seem to fit that description.  I see no water or ships.”

The Doctor blows on one of the panes of glass and wipes it with his sleeve.  “‘Frozen Harbour’?  Maybe there are no boats because it’s been turned to ice?”

You look again.  Nothing resembling ice or snow…a chill runs down your spine.  The second painting underneath the first shows the same black figures.  This time they are under a blue triangle.  The golden circle is gone.  And now you recognize the blood-red horned creature that is painted into the third scene.

You know where you are.

“Coldharbour,” you say as evenly as you can muster. 

“Yes!  I suppose that’s it.”  He foists up the circle he was working on and aims it toward the wall.  “Which one?” 

You run a finger along the leather strap around your neck.  When the Nerevarine gave this to you, did he know you would come here?  Could his charm possibly work in this nightmarish plane?  Is there a remote chance it could bring you home?  All you have to do is close your hand around it and focus…

“Soldier?  Where’m I aiming this?”

You smack the second painting with the end of your staff.  The wave of terror has ebbed, slightly, and you decide you do not want to let on to the Doctor the magnitude of danger you are in.  Though he seems handy in a crisis, you are not sure how he might behave in Oblivion.  You move your amulet to hang under your armor, hopefully staving off the temptation to use it in a blind panic.

The Doctor wrestles the glass circle into place.  A gear in the mechanism locks and the blue light now shines on the first and second paintings.  “There we are!  Now the third one said something about a Prince and Fear?  A ‘Fearsome Prince.’”

You draw yourself up.  “Fearsome?  He’s fierce, some.”

The Doctor’s voice suddenly rises in pitch like a startled sparrow in Riverwood.  “Ohh you got jokes now?”

Overcompensating with humor is not your usual style.  Can he tell how worried you are?  You gesture at the third painting down and the Doctor sets about pointing a circle at it.  Looking closer at the red figure, the teeth and horns now seem nowhere near as disconcerting as the glowering white eyes set into ebony sockets.  Are they somehow bending light?  Changing color as a cat’s eye sometimes does? 

You try to shake off the feeling of dread and describe the scene.  “Large red creature towers over the black figures from the other paintings.  They are, I believe, fighting with it.  It is rising out of a dark chasm or perhaps…being cast down into one?  Doctor…”  You turn around to stand with your back against the wall and face the machine.  He raises a circle at you; light coats your armor, then your face.  You hold a hand up to shade your eyes.

“You’re blocking it.”

“I think you should return to your TARDIS.”

“Plan to.  When we’re done.”

“If they were able to subdue…”  You are loathe to use the Daedric Prince’s name here in his plane.  “…that beast, then we are dealing with a fearsome people indeed.”

“I’ve handled fear before.”

“Doctor, where we are, the level of risk…”

“Coldharbour.  Yes yes, I read your book, remember?  A planet from your mythology.  I know.”

“Then you should look more scared.”

“Dragonborn, I am surprised at you.  You had no problem doubting one of your other gods, wassit, Azura?  Hm?  If she isn’t all-powerful, then what’s so special about this one?”

“All-powerful, no.  But powerful enough.  Either this mural is telling the truth, and there  _ is _ a mighty army here, possibly nearby, or it is lying, and the beast still yet roams free.  Either way…”

“The beast?”  He lowers the glass circle and the light drops out of your eyes.  You see the Doctor’s face knitted into a frown.  “When did you start calling Molag Bal ‘the beast’?”  He walks towards you, and you step out of his way.  He scrutinizes the wall, examining each picture in turn.  When he gets to the depiction of Molag Bal, he takes in a sharp breath, as if in pain.

“Something the matter?”

“That presence again.  Much stronger this time.  In my head…”  He suddenly clamps his hands around his ears and struggles to get words out.  “I....know...YOU!”  He releases his head with one hand, reaches out, and pulls the lever.  The mechanism quakes and gracelessly drops the raised circles back down to their neutral position.  The gears behind the wall move and the machine starts grinding upwards into the gloom.

“Doctor, what are you doing?”

“Leaving!”

“Good,” you say.  “I am glad you came to your senses.”  You pull the lever again.  With a jerking bang, the machine reverses and cranks back downward.

“Nuh-uh.  You’re coming too.”  He goes for the lever, but you hold it steady.

“No.  I  _ have _ to keep going.”

He puts both hands on the metal bar, and you struggle.  “You don’t understand!  We’re messing with events that…”  He overpowers you and the lever shifts down.  You hear a snap behind you, and you whirl around.  

The pole holding the mechanism has cracked, and the glass circles swing wildly.  You close your eyes and throw an ice spell in an attempt to freeze the weakened pole in place.  However, your desperately thrown magic does not have the desired effect, and instead just blasts the metal apart.  The glass flies and shatters upon impact with the stone floor.

In an instant, the flames in the braziers are snuffed out.  The only illumination comes from the faint glow of the pool and the blue light above the broken machine.  The trickle of plasma into the bowl ceases, and you hear something rushing in the walls around you.

You draw your sword and ready your staff.  “Oh well done.  You triggered the alarm.”

The Doctor grasps your forearm.  “To the stairs!”  He begins to run and you stumble forward as best you can.  You make it to the other side of the chamber and hurry through the archway.  As you begin to climb up the endless spiral, you try to summon your life detection thu’um.  You come up with nothing but a croak, your voice not yet returned from the last usage.  You think you hear footfalls, but it is hard to tell over the sound of your strained panting.  The Doctor’s feet soon rise out of your sight as you are unable to keep up with him. 

You stop and force your heaving lungs to hold.  Below you, coming up quick, metal scraping and beating against rock.  You release your breath and push upwards.  You know your pace is too slow to outrun them, your sore leg too old and out-of-shape to keep clambering much longer.  Above you, warm light is filtering down, and you realize you must be close to an opening.  Grunting with exertion, you force your limbs to keep pumping and make it to the landing.

Quickly, you assess your surroundings.  To your left is the stone wall of the cavern with a lit torch.  On your right is a bridge that juts out into the darkness.  Ahead, the stairs continue upward.  You decide this is where you will make your stand.  There is enough room on the landing for you to swing your sword arm, and the staircase is so narrow, creatures of any decent size will have to come one at a time.  Your long staff is too cumbersome for the space, however, so you toss the stave against the wall and make ready.

You roll your sword elbow a few times to loosen up.  “Horvutah ko grah wah dovah.  Bo ahst daaniil!” you bellow down the stairs.  ( _“Trapped in battle with me/the dragon.  Fly at your doom!”_ )

Words you do not recognize come back to you from somewhere up above.  You think you hear the Doctor, talking frantically and a second voice, deep and indecipherable.  Is the Doctor in trouble?  It is too late to go to him, for something metallic is coming up the stairs in front of you. 

It takes a moment for your brain to register what your eyes are seeing.  Round and yellowish, it seems to be moving steadily on its own.  Is it even an organic thing?  You had expected to see a foul daedric creature, a dremora maybe or a xivkyn.  Have you ever even seen a xivkyn?  Would you know what they look like?  You had read about them once, in a book somewhere; tortured, mutant servants of Molag Bal that supposedly attacked the Imperial City a long time ago.  It was Vorstag’s book.  He loved to read military history, sitting in the sun on your back porch with a sweetroll and some ale…

Focus.  You blink and realize that it is simply a metal helmet on a two-legged creature.  You throw an ice spell at it, but it does little to slow its ascent.  Next is a torso, also made entirely of metal.  You try a fire spell.  The flames find nothing to ignite and puff out.  As the figure continues its march, you see another helmet behind it.  Channeling the last of your energy, you throw an ice spike at the center mass.  It seems to penetrate, and the metal man equips a large warhammer in response. 

Your magicka spent for the moment, you pull the torch off the wall with your free hand and back out onto the landing.  The Doctor’s shouts echo off the stone, and you try to push aside your worry for him so you can keep attention on your opponent.  The figure raises his heavy weapon, so you strike quick and hard at a gap in the shoulder pauldron.  This causes him to drop his elbow and make a weak swing, which you are able to dodge by stepping back.  Before he is able to bring his hammer up again, you shove the torch in the faceplate of the helmet, hoping to momentarily blind him.  With your sword, you hack again at the shoulder.

“Surrender!” the Doctor yells.  You wonder if these metal combatants will accept the Doctor’s plea.  The foe in front of you takes advantage of your momentary loss of concentration by stamping hard on your foot with his metal boot.  You leap backwards in surprise and edge out onto the bridge.  The walkway has no railings and is only about four feet wide.  You continue to retreat a few paces, holding your torch out.  Glancing over your shoulder, that’s when you notice the bridge does not reach all the way to the other side.  The middle section has crumbled, and you estimate that it is too large of a gap for you to jump.

“Soldier, surrender!”  You cast your gaze upward and see the Doctor leaning over a landing thirty or forty feet above you.  He is addressing  _ you _ , petitioning you to lay down arms.

“Doctor, no!”  There are four figures on your landing now, and the one with the warhammer is walking out onto the bridge.  You clear your throat, hoping to have a thu’um at the ready.  If you wait and time it just right, you might be able to use Unrelenting Force to throw two or maybe even three of them off the bridge and into the abyss.  “Zu’u nid nikriin.”  ( _“I am no coward.”_ )

“Aaz!  Ov zu’u.”  ( _“Have mercy/relent!  Trust me.”_ )

One of the people on the landing has taken out a bow and is readying an arrow.  There is little room to dodge projectiles here.  The nearest figure pulls his hammer back, preparing to swing.  You have no shield to block with.  Your best bet is to redirect with your sword, if you have the strength.  In your youth, of course, you would have no doubts, but now…   _ Finn, the easiest way to win a fight is to never get hit. _

“Dovahkiin, we need the Disciples of Light alive!  Surrender!”

The first word of your thu’um bubbles readily in your throat.  You can feel it’s power roaring to be unleashed.  Even with an archer, even with no more room left to maneuver, your blood starts to course with the confidence that you can survive and even triumph.  The Dovah heart drums the beat of dominance.

“FUS RO DAH!”  You aim your voice so the metal men are thrown back onto the landing, rather than off the bridge.  If the Doctor’s ravings are somehow right, that these warriors need to be spared, you will do so, but with a safe distance between you and them.

Before you can lower your sword, you hear the twang of a bow string. 

“WAIT!” cries the Doctor.

Hard impact below your collarbone.  Your sword slides out of your hand and sails into the black.  You drop to your knees.

The Dovah blood is quiet.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters post on Fridays until the story is over.
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	11. Chapter 11

The arrow had been poisoned, of course.  Paralysis effect, and strong too.  It lasts long enough for the men to gather themselves and come over the bridge.  You cannot struggle as they bind your hands together, as if in prayer.  You cannot protest as they gag you with a dirty cloth, reeking of blight and decay.  And after one of them picks you up, looping your arms around his neck, you can only let out a muffled guttural whimper when the shaft still sticking out of your chest gets jostled.

They carry you down, then across.  Up more stairs and through other featureless corridors.  Occasionally a face carved into the stone remarks your passing coldly, their once neutral expressions now seeming to you a mockery.  If your foes have faces, however, you are unable make them out under the dull, yellowed helmets.  They say nothing to you or each other.  Are they even people?  They only march, their metal feet pounding rhythmically into the stone and sending painful reverberations through your wound.

You briefly try to keep track of how many steps your captors take, which direction at a fork, this or that bridge in the ether.  But the putrid stench of your muzzle combined with the distress from the wobbling arrow leaves you dizzy, and after a few minutes you give up.  There is only stone and darkness, occasionally punctuated by firelight on identical landings.  You are lost. 

It crosses your mind that perhaps there are signs etched into the countless entryways and arches.  Of course, even if there are, you do not have the ability to read them.  Only the Doctor can make sense of those strange circle-words.

Where is the Doctor?  If he is trailing somewhere behind, you cannot tell.  You strain to hear some sign of him.  Curious that in this moment, his excitable voice that rumbles and whines like the yowl of a silt strider would be a comfort to you.  You have a care for his safety, yes, but this is different.  You had accepted being saddled with looking after his skinny hide begrudgingly, and yet now, somehow listening to him yammer on about something incomprehensible would be a salve on your nerves.  His presence would stave off despair.

Why are you so afraid?

Indeed, this is not normal.  Your thoughts spinning wildly, dread choking you like the cloth around your mouth.

The cloth.  That fetid smell of something rotting.  Like waste-blood that was spilled long ago and left to dry in the sun.  Only this has never carried the essence of something living.  This is the stink of breathing death.  Dremora blood.  Your gag has been infused with the organs of a daedra…perhaps the heart?  Daedra hearts are a powerful alchemical ingredient; you used to sell them to Arcadia for quite a few Septims.  You never really needed them for the elixirs you preferred to make, and she would say…nevermind, what are they used for?  Something with magic.  Damaging, poisonous. 

Your boy, with his bookish obsessions, would have known immediately.

Fear.  Daedra hearts are used in fear potions.  With each breath, you are re-engaging the effects of the poison on your mind.  Courage is slowly leaving you like the blood from your wound.

Your silent party crosses a bridge and reaches a circular stone platform with a lever in the center.  The creature carrying you steps on.  When he turns around, you see more metal men, but no Doctor.  A second warrior joins you and throws the switch.  Somewhere in the walls you hear grinding, as well as the splash of water.  Perhaps plasma?  Do they use that stuff the way the Dwemer used the power of steam to run their empire?

The platform lurches, and you begin to move upwards.  Another lift.  The Doctor would be pleased.

He called them the ‘Disciples of Light’.  Had he met these beings before?  Why was he so keen to protect them?  You close your eyes and try to draw on the Time Lord’s memories stashed in your mind, but they are too jumbled.  You have no context, no way of cataloging anything. 

Three minutes go by.  At least, you think it has been that long.  Time is hard to reckon here.

The landings you are now ascending past are gradually changing in appearance.  The stone walls are cut at sharper angles, the lines more defined.  The floors are smoother, and eventually the bridges you see even have hand railings along the edges.  The braziers are more numerous, and you can see further into the various chambers.  You can now make out more elaborately carved faces and statues in the stone.  They are starting to resemble…

There, a person!  His back turned to you, he’s leaning out over a railing and he’s…an elf?  At least, his large pointed ears make him seem to be.  He turns and watches the lift rise above him with a disinterested gaze.  He has bluish gray skin and a thick black beard fashioned into a row of braids.  His robe is multi-colored but threadbare, as if it had once been an elaborately embellished affair in a time long forgotten.  He turns back around to lean on the railing.  You try to continue studying him, but the stone floor of the next landing obscures your view.

You needn’t have strained to examine him, for the next storey holds more to see.  This is a floor that opens up into a great chamber, reaching hundreds of feet across.  Instead of a small landing and a dodgy bridge jutting out into air, here there is solid ground.  The dark rock shines like polished ebony, reflecting blue light.  There are pools of that glowing plasma at even intervals along the walls, and steady trickles pour out of bowls into precisely carved channels in the floor.  The moving plasma illuminates the large room, but also seems to have other functions. 

At first it seems like an unintelligible mess of elves in thick leather robes.  Steam hisses and you hear the clangs of metal banging on metal.  But as you slowly rise above the room, you understand the chamber is functioning as a forge of some sort, though not like one you have ever seen.  Plasma streams by in the channels on the floor, moving gears and wheels like a water mill.  The gears reach up to a series of tables, connected to each other in a labyrinthine shape.  Leather is stretched across rolling cylinders, and the gears move the leather.  When an elf places an item to be worked on the leather strip, the table moves the item down to the next station.  Some elves seem to be making weapons, others producing objects you cannot recognize.  At the beginning of this system, a great stone bowl sits up on a platform, forty feet wide, and holds plasma over an open fire.  Now white hot, it pours through a spout into some sort of mechanism.  One elf slides a sheet of metal towards it, and the white plasma shoots down, cutting intricate shapes out of the metal.  The elf takes the pieces and puts them onto different tables, and away they go, being further cut or carved or banged into the desired item by the next elf.

No Orc, no Nord could ever conceive of such a system.  It is frightening in its speed and accuracy.  Even in the days when Eorlund worked the Skyforge, there was never such prowess.  Something that would have taken him the better part of a week could likely be made in a matter of hours here.  In spite of your pain and the alchemical-induced fear, you find yourself in awe of the place.  There is undeniable beauty in the severity and scale of their industriousness.  If these creatures are indeed Dwemer, astonishing as that may be, it is impossible not to respect their skill.

Vorstag would love this.

The next chamber is even grander.  More polished black floors and walls, more flowing plasma, but this time there are plants.  Three storeys of walkways rim the edges of the chamber, and vines drape over the sides of the railings.  Trees are growing out of stone pots on the bottom floor of the room, and the walkways above are carved around the branches.  Several archways are set into the walls, leading to staircases and other rooms.  Elves mill about, some in robes, some in armor.  They talk, even laugh, leaning over balcony edges or sitting on the stone benches that litter the floor.  Their language is hard, and their voices are deep. 

Your mind reels.  You never thought to see vegetation such as this  _ existing _ much less thriving in Coldharbour.  And the mer living here…these are not Daedra or Dremora.  If these beings truly imprisoned Molag Bal, have they also found ways to make his plane bearable?

As this chamber lowers out of view, you hear the sound of metal moving.  A blast of cold hits you from above, and you look up as best you can.  Pallid gray light is now filtering down into the shaft of the lift.  While you would not describe the air as fresh, it definitely feels different to the mineral warmth of the caverns below.  You ascend past a very thick layer of stone and are heading towards a small canopy fashioned from the rock.  The lift slows, and now you can see past the overhang into…nothing.

It is like a night sky, but somehow obscured.  There is no comforting black blanket with threads of stars.  No moons, no aurora.  It is colorless, shapeless vacancy.

This is what the Doctor was trying to tell you.  First in Blackreach, then at the Bannered Mare, and outside in the street before the Nerevarine appeared.  The void.

Fear rises in your body like the lift through the cavern.  How curious to be afraid of literally nothing.

The lift halts.  The man, or likely mer, carrying you steps off.  To your surprise, there is a stone path ahead that picks its way through a scree.  Towering up on your left is a large mountain, black against the nothingness.  To your right is a sharp drop off into a river of the plasma.  The blue cascades and flows off the mountain, some over the surface of the rock, some from unseen streams underneath.  They all feed into the large flow that rings around the visible ground.  Beyond the river – more of the emptiness.  If you squint, you believe you can see other landmasses, seemingly floating in the air.  It hurts to look.

Your captors march along the path, their steps less sure above ground.  At least, you believe you are above ground.  In the caverns, it was hard to get a sense of scale or direction, but at least up and down seemed a given.  But on the stone, with no sky and the mountain you stand upon having no roots into sensible land, even those fundamental truths seem precarious. 

As the path winds up the incline, the temperature drops fast.  The blood from your wound has run down your arm and torso, and now has you shivering.  The head of the arrow bites, then burns inside you.  You shift and try to get more comfortable, but it is impossible.  As you pass a stream of the plasma, you think you hear a soft breeze beginning to blow.  You feel not a breath of it on your skin, but it is lulling your thoughts into wool.  Somewhere, something is whispering soft nonsense to you.  The edge of your eyesight fades like spray off a waterfall.

There is a hum.  Metallic, sustained.  You struggle to see.  Were your eyes closed?  Another hum, up half a step from the first.  They sing together, not in harmony but in duel.  This sound is not in your head.

At some point, you had stopped moving.  There is a wall of ice in front of you.  From the center of your eye, you see a mer winding a crank that is connected to a pipe.  He moves to another one and turns it.  A third tone, low and rumbly.  It feels dissonant in your chest.  You do not like it, wish the comforting whispers would return.  He pulls on a fourth crank and the noise is now an assault on the air.  You hear ice crack, then smash.

Metal and stone scrape.  You move through a door, darkness. 

Some part of your mind thinks of Arkngthamz.  A tonal puzzle to unlock the door.  Vorstag thought it was so clever of the Dwemer, even after you got the order wrong and sprung the trap.  It rained bolts, you ducked, cursed.  One of them grazed you, he laughed.  “I guess you don’t have a musical ear, eh friend?”  He touched your arm with his big, beautiful hands.  You had wanted to be more than just friends.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

You shake your head.  “Just a scratch.”

“You need to heal yourself.”

Vorstag looks worried, drops your arm.  There’s a tugging pain in your chest.  No, no this is not how it went.  He had pulled you closer, good-naturedly flicked the point of your ear. 

“Soldier, I’m going to yank it out.”

There had been uncharacteristic coquettish blushing, this lion of a man making you feel demure and shy for the first time in your life.  He had leaned in…

Your awareness slams back into the present as the arrowhead cleaves your skin.  When he finally rips it from your body, the Doctor staggers back a pace from the force of his tug.  He throws the arrow off to the side and kneels next to you.  “Can’t cauterize it.  You’ve gotta use your regeneration energy.”

You look down at yourself.  Fresh blood pours from the hole in your collar. You are lying on a polished black stone floor.  You cannot see anyone else in the room, save the Doctor.  It is no small battle to stay awake, facing reality rather than slipping back into semi-conscious memories of Vorstag.  

With exertion, you grunt, “The healer who cannot heal.”

Humoring you, he pretends to be offended.  “It’s a metaphor.” 

“Comforting.”  The strain of talking is quickly draining your energy.  A wave of pain from your wound hits, and you involuntarily groan.  You close your eyes, letting your head loll to the side.

You feel fingers on your jaw, pushing it gently.  “Awright, hey, stay with me?”  He snaps his fingers in front of your face, and you open your eyes, trying to focus.  “Fix yourself, okay?”

You nod.  You lift your still-bound hands and cast a healing spell.  You feel a cleansing tingle all over, and the pain slowly but steadily starts to abate.

“Let’s sit you up.”  He slips an arm under your shoulders and helps you to a somewhat comfortable slump against the wall.

“Where were you?”

“Needed information.  Still do.”  He stands and takes out his sonic screwdriver.  He walks slowly around the perimeter of the room, running it over this and that. 

You appear to be in a laboratory of some sort.  There are alchemy tables with beakers and alembics of all sizes.  There are tools you do not recognize and a great yellowy-metal mechanism thirty feet long in the center of the floor.  On one end is a hole, and in the middle it expands like the belly of a horker.  There are empty circular slots a few inches in diameter, and some levers.  Then it tapers back down to a spherical glass lens.  It sits on a wooden frame with wheels.

Directly across from you, there is no wall but instead an opening out into space like the mouth of a cave.  Plasma from somewhere above falls over this opening, keeping the room pleasantly warm.  Some of it streams into a long stone basin that lines the wall on your right.  On your left is a spiral staircase.  The steps are worn, but were clearly made with rigorous precision.  Everything in the room, in fact, seems thoroughly used yet well-maintained.

“You called them a name.  Like you knew them.” 

He nods, studying his instrument.

You think for a second.  “‘Disciples of Light’.  Never heard that before.  Are they nearby?  Friends of yours?”

“They let me in.”

“Nice friendly greeting they have.  Shooting an arrow through me.  I see you are unscathed.”

He gets to the machine in the middle of the room and frowns.  “They are not friends of mine.  And they are not all Disciples…oh hang on.”  His screwdriver changes tone and he bends forward to get a closer look.  His speech builds in speed, racing to keep up with his thoughts.  “That can’t be.  Not here.  How are you even possible?”  He knocks on the side of it and he presses an ear against it.  “Some sort of capacitor?  Agitator?”  He gallops to the glass on the end.  “Quantum gyro compensating lens!  What are they trying to do, blow a hole in the void?”

You shake your head, uncomprehending.  “Could you kindly untie my hands?”

“This is way beyond any of you lot.”

“The Dwemer keep finding ways to surprise you, eh Doctor?”

“No, I mean there is no possible way they could have even  _ conceived _ of this.”  He peers into the lens.  “Molag Bal, perhaps?”

“Of course you would ascribe the work of elves to a god.  Could it not just be that they are good at working things out?”  He briefly looks at you the way you would look at a child who just requested a unicorn.  “Doubt if you must, but they create wonders the like no else can imagine.”

“I can imagine plenty.”  He walks towards a table with papers stacked neatly on it.  He lifts up a page, then quickly folds it and puts it in his pocket.

On your right, you hear metal creak.  Part of the wall swings away and three of the armored mer enter the room.  The one in front removes his helmet and marches up to the Doctor.  You struggle to stand, but you are still recovering and cannot make it to your feet.  You prepare a thu’um, but the Doctor does not seem alarmed.

The mer without a helmet is, as far as you can tell, an older elf.  His face has the wrinkles of a Dunmer in his third century, but his hair has only slight traces of gray.  It occurs to you that aging for Dwemer might be quite different than other elves.  He wears his beard in one thick braid, black as the stone floor.  A Dwarven war axe sits in his belt, which he rests a hand on.  The other he gestures with as he starts talking in stern tones with the Doctor.  His voice echoes around the room like a priest in a sepulcher, such that it is hard to hear the words as individual sounds.  The language sounds guttural and round, with occasional sharp punctuating points.  You have not the faintest idea what they are saying.

At one point, the mer points at you, and the Doctor shakes his head.  You size up the other two Dwemer in the room, trying to decide which thu’um would be best.  “Doctor, what do they want?”  He glances at you quickly, a slight look of confusion on his face.  He resumes speaking with the mer, his voice taking on an argumentative timbre.  The two mer by the door start walking towards you.  “Doctor, I will attack!”  One of them picks up a piece of cloth from the floor, your gag.  He starts untying it, readying it for use again.  You take in a deep breath.

“Soldier, don’t!”  He holds his hand out toward you.  “Let them do it.”

“I will not!”  You try to stand again, judging where the center of gravity for the closest mer might be. 

The Doctor rushes over to you, gets between you and the Dwemer.  “Let them do it.  I’m trying to talk to them, diffuse the situation.  But you make them nervous.”

“Good.”

He exhales impatiently.  “They know what a weapon your words are.”

“Oh and yours are not?”  You look up at the Dwemer.  “He could enthrall a Centurion just by airing out his teeth a minute.”  The mer does not respond and holds up the prepared gag.  You look back at the Doctor.  “No, no.  It has Daedra blood on it.  I will not submit.”

He takes it out of the Dwemer’s hand and sniffs it.  “Caugh!  What…ugh!”  He balls it up and throws it on the floor.  The Dwemer says something gruffly and the Doctor holds up a hand.  “Wait, wait.”  He removes the long brown cloth that dangles from his neck and holds it up.  He says words you do not understand, and the Dwemer backs up a pace.

“What are you doing?”

“I promise you, this has not been drugged.  We’re just going to go along until we can figure out what their plans are, okay?”

“We?   _ We _ ?  An insult.  I get shot, poisoned, and gagged…”

“Soldier,” he looks at you sternly.  “The best chance we have of stopping an invasion is by talking.  You really want to take on an army alone?”

“You are afraid I’ll win,” you say defiantly.

He pulls back his lips into a thin line and says nothing.  There is something in his eyes, understanding?  Regret?  He recognizes your pride, and it makes you embarrassed.  You exhale and nod once.  Quickly, he knots the silky material around your mouth, leaving enough slack to not cause soreness.

Job done, he pops back up and resumes an animated discussion with the Dwarves.  The one without a helmet shifts around nervously, casting eyes at the staircase from time to time.  The Doctor, frustrated, gestures at the machine in the middle of the room.  One of the other mer apparently asks a question of you, and they all look your way.

“Just shake your head, Soldier.”  You do not and instead glare at the Doctor.  “Oh c’mon, don’t be…are you not following?”

You shake your head, completely lost.  The Doctor frowns.  “But the TARDIS…”

“She cannot understand because she doesn’t speak Dwemeris,” a resonant male voice intones from the stairs.  A pair of feet in dark hide boots descends.  “She is not as gifted at antediluvian linguistics as you.” 

A mer walks purposefully but lightly into the room.  His hair is dark with streaks of gray.  His beard is trim, tidily surrounding his mouth.  Unlike the others you have seen thus far, his jaws are clean shaven, shadowed under his prominent cheekbones.  He is taking off a high-collared cloak, revealing a golden red tunic underneath.  His voice is clear and low, shaped by the stone like a diamond emerging from the crushing heat.  In fact, if you closed your eyes while listening to his imperious speech, you could almost mistake him for a dragon.

“Hello.  And which one might you be?” asks the Doctor.

“Hm, yes, manners.  Never my strong suit.  Inefficient.”  He considers the Doctor for a moment, then walks over to a table near the large plasma basin.  “I am the Chief Tonal Architect, High Engineer, and about a half dozen other titles.  But you may call me Lord Kagrenac.”  With brisk movements, he puts on a pair of thick black gauntlets.

You let out a surprised squeal behind your gag.  Can this be the same Kagrenac that disappeared thousands of years ago?  Is that even possible?

With the gloves on, he lowers his hands into the plasma and closes his eyes.  “Wondrous stuff.  The Dremora, when they were still around, called it ‘Azure Plasm’.  Could have used some of this back on Nirn.”  The plasma runs through his hands and into a channel that disappears through the floor.

You hear whispers.  It is calling, but not necessarily for you.  You try to push the sound of the plasma out of your mind.

“What happened to the locals?” asks the Doctor.

“They were inconveniencing me.  Needed an Anchor.  Had to be removed from the equation.”  Kagrenac opens his eyes and takes his hands out of the basin.  He walks over to an alchemy table.

“Invade a planet that isn’t yours and kill off the natives?”

“The ‘invasion’ was quite by accident.  A miscalculation.  I don’t intend to stay in Coldharbour much longer.”

“I wasn’t talking about Coldharbour.”

Kagrenac’s lips twinge for half a second into a shape that almost resembles a smile.  He picks up a handful of empty stoneware bottles and returns to the basin.  “I certainly have no intention of harming anyone further.  I’m only interested in the science.  My Tonal Guard may get lucky and find the tools I need without requiring any bloodshed.”

“What tools do you need?”

Kagrenac dips the first bottle into the plasma and fills it.  “Why?  Do you intend to help me?  That would be a change.”

The Doctor crosses his arms.  “The circumstances  _ have _ changed.  Even here, you must have felt it.”

Kagrenac caps the bottle and sets it on a table.  “Hmph.”

“What’s with the dress up, anyway?  You’re not the Master.”

“It’s not hard to regenerate with pointed ears, for those of us who took the time to learn control.”

“More fun my way.”

“Cretin.”  He looks over his shoulder at the Doctor.  “But I admit, I can indulge a weakness for disguises, when it suits my purpose.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“You’ve fallen for it before.”  He waves his hand impatiently.  “I have been this way for eons.  Not everything is about you, you know.  I have been allowed to work.  That is all I have ever wanted.”

You grunt, trying to get the attention of the Doctor.  He walks towards you, but Kagrenac halts his progress.

“Her gag stays,” he says firmly.

The Doctor holds up a hand to you, urging patience.  You narrow your eyes.  You may not understand everything they are discussing, but if this is truly the Lord Kagrenac of legend, is it not your duty as a Dunmer, descendant of the Chimer, to destroy this ancient enemy of your people?

As if to placate you, the Doctor says, “This is not  _ really _ a Dwemer.  Oh he may call himself ‘Chief Architect of the Vibrating Bananas’, but it’s a meaningless title.”

Kagrenac scoffs.  “As meaningless as ‘The Doctor.’”

“I’ll stick to your old name, thanks, from our school days.”

“Sentimental, even for you.”

The Doctor gestures at Kagrenac with mock reverence.  “Soldier, it is my distinct…something…to introduce The Rani.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will take longer than usual. New job (yay!) so my life has exploded (boo.)
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	12. Chapter 12

 

For Funsies - [Click Here For Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61heRVPQsLM&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u0XQUakuY2dQoCOM_nytm0D)

“Yours, I presume.”  The Doctor tosses the lexicon cube on the table and runs his sonic over it.

The voice you heard earlier when the Doctor used the cube in Blackreach is heard again.  “Help!  I’ve been stuck here for too long.  Help!  I’ve been stuck...”

The Rani continues filling bottles with plasma and says nothing.

“You sound so helpless.”  The Doctor switches to a mocking tone. “‘Oh help, I’m so scared.  Please come save me.  Lost little Time Lord.’”

“I simply requested a lift.  I calculated the chances that someone survived to be about 4.3%.  Just my luck _you_ would be the victor at the end.”

“Ha.”  The Doctor’s laugh is mirthless.  He picks the lexicon cube back up and gestures with it.  “This is no innocent request.  You wouldn’t ask for help unless you were really and truly desperate.  Stuck in a hell of your own making, seems like.”

“I did not make this place.  I am simply making the best of it.”

“Better than you deserve.”

You find yourself disquieted by the Doctor’s hostile responses to the Rani.  Though admittedly Kagrenac plays the villain in your people’s history, all the same, cruelty seems unbecoming of the Doctor.

A whisper curls around you like a vine on a stake.   _I hear the questions in your mind, elf._

The Doctor stalks around the table and speaks with rising anger to the Rani’s back.  “The war breaks out and where are you?  The fight to save all the universe?  One of the most brilliant scientists who ever lived, you could have helped!  Even the Master returned.”

“As did I, for a time.”

The Doctor shakes his head.  “I never saw you.  Arcadia.  The Nightmare…”

“I am no use on a battlefield.  I was elsewhere.  Until I wasn’t.”

“So you ran away.”

“Do not be jealous that I stole your signature move.”  The Rani taps the lid shut on one of the bottles.

“I _stayed_.  I saw things, did things, atrocities that would make even you…”

The Rani turns and interrupts, his voice louder but remaining even-tempered.  “Even I what, Doctor?”

The Doctor sighs and lowers his eyes.  It is hard to tell for certain from your position on the floor, but he looks like he’s hiding something.  Is it guilt that is knotting his eyebrows so?

The Rani leans closer to the Doctor’s face.  “I have never claimed any allegiance to Gallifrey.  Just because my convictions rarely match yours does not mean I have none.  You are not the only one who experienced horrors in the Time War.”

The Rani gathers together the filled bottles and puts them on a wooden cart.  “So did it work?”  The Doctor does not respond. Adding some strange-looking tools to the collection of bottles, the Rani gestures at one of the Dwemer by the door.  The guard nods and wheels the cart out the door.  “Are we all that remains of the Glorious Eternal Empires?”

“I thought I was it.  For years, all that was left.  But I think…no, I _know_ there are others.  On Nirn, in Skyrim.”

The Rani stops and looks up, as if remembering something from long ago.  “Oh yes?  They are still surviving?”

The Doctor’s mouth falls open.  “You knew about them?”

“How surprising.  Those sad somnambulists bumbling around in the snow.  Remarkable they had the wherewithal to feed themselves, much less leave Morrowind.”  The Rani walks over to the great machine in the center of the room.

“Why are they pretending?  They lied to my face.”

“How many years has it been, I wonder?  Since I wound up here.”

The Doctor crosses his arms and studies the Rani.  “And you with the ears.  Why is everyone pretending?  Is it suddenly not cool to be Gallifreyan now?”

There are whispers in your mind again.   _How long has it been, Dragonborn?  You know, don’t you?  Something about you is connected to the Dwemer…_  You see a series of moving images.  Things you never witnessed, only heard or read about.  The Battle of Red Mountain, Nerevar defeating King Dumac, Kagrenac in front of a great ball of light.   _Yes yes, I was there for that_.  The voice tries to move your thoughts away to other things, but you concentrate on the ball of light.  What was Kagrenac, the Rani, doing?  What terrible machinations had he created?  Is that dazzling light truly the Heart of Lorkhan?  The heart of a God?

The voice grows impatient.   _Any advanced technology seems like the work of gods to primitives like you._  The image of Kagrenac dissipates, and now you see the rise of the Tribunal and their betrayal.  Azura cursing the Chimer and the proliferation of the Dunmer in their stead.   _Ah_ , purrs the voice.   _The Dwemer enemies of old are still around.  Changed but alive.  Useful._  More images, half-forgotten myths you heard as a child, histories of empires, the Planemeld, Oblivion crisis, and you, fighting Alduin in Sovngarde.   _My my, you have been busy.  And yet, not any significant advances in science for thousands of years._

The Doctor is talking.  You try to listen.  “Chameleon arch?  Maybe...no, no, they can still regenerate.”

_Where are my tools, Dunmer?_  The Rani searches your brain, examining every weapon, every odd bit of paraphernalia stowed away in your memory.   _Surely they are still around.  Highly coveted, I would imagine._  The images pulse faster, hotter, the voice getting anxious.   _Where are they?_  The voice is no longer a whisper but a shout in your head.  You shut your eyes and struggle.  You do not know what he wants.   _Do not lie to me!  A greedy treasure hunter like yourself, surely you came across them.  Hid them in your dragon’s hoard!_

The dovah blood in you snarls back.  Jaws open and clamp around the throat of the voice.  You bend Its will, peer inside.  It gurgles, sputters.  You want It to stop, to leave you alone.

For a brief moment, your memories disappear and are replaced with the Rani’s.  He, or rather she, is running.  Corridor after corridor.  Something is chasing her.  She is distraught and afraid.  She is outside now.  Machines in the sky, death screams from the city far behind.  She is frantic, talking to people dressed in animal hides.  She wants them, needs them to join her in a TARDIS.  They do not trust her, trust any of the upper class.  “They left you here to be slaughtered.  Do not allow it!” she urges.

A great bang, pain in her chest.  She looks down, blood.  She is dying.  Was it a Dalek?  She turns and sees soldiers dressed in red armor.  Hunted down by her own.  She falls…

The vision clears.  You open your eyes and see the Rani glancing at you over the top of the machine.  Behind your gag, you smile.  The Rani turns away and concentrates on adjusting levers.  “You never answered.  Did it work?”

The Doctor hesitates, looks down.  “I…pushed the button.  In the end.”

The Rani clicks his tongue.  “Doctor I am surprised at you.  You of them all.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“Well, I intend to make my own.  Never Rassilon’s puppet, not even at the end of the universe.”

The Doctor does not respond.  He looks utterly miserable, and you wish you understood.

The Rani stops his work.  “They _are_ all gone?  Daleks too?”

The Doctor nods.  “Stopped the war.  Once and for good.”

The Rani looks at the machine in front of him and holds his hand over a dial.  It’s the first time he has halted his activity.  Is he dismayed by the Doctor’s news?  Pleased?  Impossible to tell.

When you were a young fetcher in the Gray Slums of Windhelm, there was a particularly spiteful aunt that you had to live with for awhile.  You hated being around her, but in that city where all elves were treated suspiciously, she was what you had.  Restrained by disgust yet resigned to the situation, you did not have to like her, but you obliged yourself to be civil.

It is that discordant quality – forced attempt at dutiful love – that you recognize in the Doctor’s manner now.  “I could get you out of here.  Drop you off somewhere you can’t hurt anyone.”

“Still trying to claim moral authority?  Even now?  Your generosity is overwhelming.  Really, I’m touched.”  The Rani signals the two remaining Dwemer.  As they walk over to the mechanism, the Rani adjusts a dial, then closes a lid over it.

The Doctor frowns.  “Maybe I should.  Someone should.”

The Rani raises an eyebrow.  “You know, I’m surprised you gave up the office of Lord Presidency so easily.  You love all that rah and tat.”  The Rani’s voice becomes deeper and even more imperious.  “Dictating what should and should not be.”

“Your mind, Rani.  So radiant, wonderful even.  But left unchecked, your power…”

“Power!  Always about power with you.”  The Rani waves a hand towards the door.  The Dwemer roll the great metal machine away on its wooden frame.

The Doctor speaks slowly, calmly.  “With so few of us left, Daleks gone, Time Lords gone, I have to keep watch over your madness.”

“Never madness.  I am and always have been the sane one.  Listen to you!”  A vocal sneer tinges the Rani’s voice.  “‘The Daleks and the Time Lords are gone.’  Moral Dictator in a shabby suit, mourning the loss of the apex predators of the universe!  And here I am, with work so important, something that could fix everything, even _your_ mistakes.  I will not entertain your concerns any further.  No, I am the sane one.”

The Doctor gestures at the machine the Dwemer are taking out the door.  “You’ve got a photon agitator there with a big ole’ compensating lens on the end of it.  The destruction that thing could do, and you want to tell me it’s beneficial?”

The Rani shakes his head and smiles pityingly.  “This is what war does to you, Doctor.  You see death in everything.  It is simply a focusing mechanism.  My previous attempt, I was in too big of a hurry.”  The Rani looks at you, his voice lightly mocking.  “Chimer hordes are so uncivilized.  Not a mistake I’m making again.”

The Doctor takes a step towards the Rani and lowers his voice.  “Whatever it is, you don’t have to do it.  We’re it.  You and I, we can gather what’s left of our people, find somewhere safe…”

“Go where?  Where is safe?”

“Somewhere out of the way…”

“I went somewhere out of the way.  Completely _out._ ”  The Rani’s air of amused superiority is showing cracks.  His voice becomes slightly exasperated.  “What do you really think would happen, Doctor?  That we could all fly off in your TARDIS and make New Gallifrey?  Like friends, like brothers.  Oh how happy we could be.”  The two Dwemer guards come back into the room and the Rani nods.  They flank the Doctor and seize his arms.

“What are you doing?” demands the Doctor.  You struggle to your feet and start working your jaw, trying to free your mouth from the gag.

“A new method, Doctor.  My earlier trials had…unpleasant ramifications.  But this one will be most painless.”  The Dwemer start dragging the Doctor towards the door as two more guards enter and come for you.

The Doctor’s feet slide on the floor.  “We can try, you and me!  It doesn’t have to be like this.”  The Rani holds up his hand, as if changing his mind.  The Doctor looks encouraged.  “Sure, we never got on.  But I always love a challenge, me.”

The Rani addresses one of the Dwemer.  “On second thought, take them up to the balcony.  I want them to see.”

Two guards clamp their metal hands on your shoulder and haul you towards the worn stone stairs.  The two with the Doctor follow behind.  You keep maneuvering your mouth to loosen the fabric, trying to keep the movements as unnoticeable as possible.  Up the stairs you go, the Doctor babbling at the Rani about becoming allies.  Through the doorway, down a small corridor, and suddenly you are outside again.  Or at least, out under the void.

You are on a large rock platform, cut into the mountain.  Plasma trickles down in falls on sides.  There is a small wooden lever on the right.  Straight ahead is a sheer drop, fifty or sixty feet down.  You hear rustling and a dull rumble, and look around to see the source.  As the guards bring you and the Doctor towards the edge of the balcony, you see it.

The multitude.  Below you, hundreds, perhaps even a thousand people are assembled in a huge rocky field.  Some are dressed as the guards, but most are dressed like the other Dwemer you saw in the caves.  Robes and tattered clothing.  They are talking amongst themselves, eagerly awaiting something.

The Rani walks up behind you.  “I was never really one for working a crowd.  But they have their uses.  In one way, we are similar, Doctor.”

The Doctor stares out at the mass of Dwemer and responds flatly.  “Which way?”

“I too love a challenge.”

The Rani walks over to the right side of the platform and extends a gloved hand into the plasma.  He closes his eyes and a hush immediately falls on the crowd down below.  They all look up at the balcony, expectantly.  Though you are not sure why, you feel a desire to listen.

The Rani opens his eyes.  “My illustrious colleagues!  Industrious ones!  Disciples of Light!  Tonal Guards!  And of course, my cherished friends!”

As a cheer rises up from the Dwemer, the Doctor scoffs.  “You never had any friends.”

The Rani ignores him.  “You have suffered.  You have sacrificed.  Here, in this lightless, timeless place, you have survived!  You imprisoned a _God!_ ”  Another cheer.  You feel a curious sense of pride in achievements that are not your own.  “You have labored and invented and pushed the boundaries of what anyone else back on Nirn would ever have thought possible.”  This time, the response is even more massive.  The sound of claps and shouts and stomping of feet comes roaring up to you.

The Rani’s voice changes from congratulatory to accusing.  “And what of those back on Nirn?  While we have been stuck here, thousands of years have passed for them.  They raised empires in the ruins of your greatest cities!  Dismantled your greatest works!  Mocked your legacy and melted it down for parts!”  The Dwemer shout angrily, and in spite of yourself, you feel a bubbling anger.

The Rani raises the hand not held in the stream of plasma.  “Brothers and sisters…”  Another scoff from the Doctor.  “I do not blame the beastfolk for this abasement.  Khajiit and Argonian are too simple-minded to know what they do.  We shall extend them our forgiveness so they, in gratitude, will seek to work for us once again.  And then you can return to your birthright as honored craftsmen and engineers, not menial toilers!”

Slavery.  The Rani, Kagrenac, is speaking about bringing back slavery.  And the crowd below is _loving_ it.

“But you know who does deserve to pay for sleeping freely under the stars while we waste away in the dark?  The men!  The Nords who all too eagerly took up arms against us!  They drove our brothers, the Snow Elves, into extinction!”  You can feel the assembly’s righteous ire on behalf of the Snow Elves; how easily and completely they are ignoring their own role in eradicating the race.  The Dwemer turned the Snow Elves into the Betrayed.  The blind, dumb Falmer.  But the Rani’s voice bends reality, tucking away the undesired bits.

“I tell you now Aggrieved Ones, they are not the worst offenders.  The men at least have some sense of loyalty, of honor in battle.  No, they are not the lowest.  The worst by far are those we once called friend.  Fellow elves who blatantly ignored the peace treaties set up by our fallen King Dumac!  They invaded us, slayed our kin, and destroyed our lives!  But they could not exterminate us…”

Outrage.  You feel it burning inside you.  You try to channel it towards the Rani, but you cannot help feeling some loathing towards your own ancestors.

The Rani takes his hand out of the stream and strides towards the center of the platform.  “Dear Dwemer, I come to you today with news.  I have learned those deceivers, the Chimer, yet live!  They now call themselves ‘Dunmer’, and they grow fat off the fruits of our labor in Tamriel while we languish in this prison.  Here is one now!”  The guards push you right to the edge of the platform, displaying you for the crowd.  Their roiling hatred for you is apparent, but you no longer feel it first-hand as you had been just a few seconds earlier.  The Rani’s voice, and the Dwemers’ reactions, have gone back to being completely external entities.

“Friends, as you know, I too have been working.  Tirelessly toiling.  Trying to find a way to bring us back to our rightful lands.  Many of you have helped me in my experiments.  I tell you today, noble ones, I finally have it!  A safe path home for all of us!”  Joyous, raucous applause.

“We will journey back to Nirn and reclaim our empire.  In order to do so, you must help me find my tools, Sunder, Keening, and Wraithguard!  You will scour all of Tamriel, leave no stone unturned.  And when I, your humble Tonal Architect, have them in my possession, no man or mer will be able to stop us from taking back what is ours!”  Loudest cheer yet.  You look over at the Doctor.  His face is grim.

“I will go ahead to Nirn to prepare your arrival.  Here, you must make ready for battle.  Hope for peace, but plan for resistance.  The Dwarves are coming back.”  As the crowd below celebrates and starts breaking up, the Rani goes back over to the stream of plasma and puts his hand in again.  “So Doctor, how did I do?  These Dwemer remind you of anyone?  So big on empires and homelands.”

“You’re still great at manipulating people, if that’s what you mean.”

“I do my best.”

“Though be fair, you have help.”

“Do I?”

Below, the crowd is thinning, and you think you see something recognizable.

“That ‘Azure Plasm’.  It’s not just for running engines, you run your whole operation with it.”

“I don’t think that’s really a secret, Doctor.”

A few Tonal Guards are moving the Rani’s giant machine onto the field.  They are rolling it towards…

“Low-level telepathic field.  Get someone powerful enough to manipulate it and you got yourself a slave army.”

“Mmmm!” you shout from behind your gag.  You try to gesture towards the field.

The Doctor does not look.  “But what happens when you get them all back to Nirn, like you promised?  There, the streams run with boring old water.  What, are you gonna pick some up from the general store?”

The Rani removes his hand from the plasma and walks up to the Doctor.  “Come now, you know how mobs operate.  By then, I won’t even have to try hard.”  He looks at the guards holding the Doctor.  “Keep him still.”  They tighten their grip and the Rani reaches out a hand.

You hold your shoulder up to your face and use it to slide the fabric off your mouth.  “Get away from him,” you snarl.  “Now!”

“Oh-ho, no need to shout.”  The Rani sticks his hand in the Doctor’s suit pocket.  “I was only looking…”  He pulls out a tiny object.  “…for this.”

You sharply inhale, getting ready to shout the Rani’s skinny body off the ledge.

“Soldier, don’t,” says the Doctor.

You ignore him.  He didn’t see the box down on the field.  “FUS…”

“Soldier!”

The guards holding your arms struggle, trying to force you down.  They are not succeeding.  “…RO…”

The guards holding the Doctor are even less successful, as he breaks free from them and tackles you just as you let out your “DAH!”  The force from the thu’um flies harmlessly up into the void.

The Rani shakes his head as he walks towards the wooden lever on the side of the platform.  “I see the Dunmer are just as quick to violent outbursts as their Chimer forefathers.  Good to know.”  He pulls the lever and a small portion of the platform disengages from the rest.  The Rani steps on it and is quickly lowered down towards the field.

The Doctor takes out his sonic screwdriver and aims it at the lift.  It makes the noise, but nothing happens.  “Baaah it doesn’t do wood!”

The guards pull you and the Doctor back up onto your feet.  “Doctor, look!”

He finally turns his attention down to the field, and he sees what made you so alarmed.  “My key.  He took my key.”

With about a dozen feet left to go, the Rani leaps off the lift and hurries towards the Doctor’s TARDIS.  He gives instructions to members of the Tonal Guard as he goes.  He opens the door and they roll in his machine.

The Nerevarine knew you would fail in your mission.  Did he know it would be the Doctor’s fault?  You turn your bitterness onto your companion.  “You are a fool, Doctor.  You should have let me kill him.”

The Rani steps into the TARDIS and closes the door.  The guards start to hustle you and the Doctor back into the mountain just as the blue box slowly disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the 6 month hiatus. New chapters are still coming, though they will take awhile in between each (compared to the first several chapters.) Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	13. Chapter 13

(For funsies - [Click Here for Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rg_mGxGVBPY&list=PLaXkOijZ_4u3FudGqNwMmLt_R9vnDT7Yw))

As the lift descends, the Doctor is talking pointedly with your captors.  Their answers are gruff and curt, or at least their manner of speaking makes it seem so.  The Doctor is not bothering to translate any of it for you, but you are too preoccupied to care.

What will the Rani do with that TARDIS?  Will he carry out his promises of war on Nirn?  Attempt to return the dwarves to their former glory?  If he is one of the Doctor’s people and not truly a Dwemer, then what does he care about such things?

Genuine war-bringer or not, you are now stuck in Coldharbour without a way to return home.  The amulet of recall from the Nerevarine still hangs around your neck, but you will not leave the Doctor here alone.  You wish there was a way to warn the Nerevarine of the danger heading towards him.

You get out of the lift and start walking down stone corridors.  On the Doctor drones, as if chatter could save him.  His words have a coaxing sound, like he’s trying to convince the Dwemer of something.  When has begging for a life ever saved one?  Certainly you have never seen it work.  So, without weapons at hand, what offensive moves can you make?  Because it will have to be you, of course.  Always you.  If anyone is going to get the pair of you out of this mammoth dungheap of a rock maze, it will fall to you.  The Doctor is out of his depth.

“Ah right on time.  Or whatever counts as time here,” says the Doctor.  

A pair of Dwemer are walking towards you, garbed in the armor of the guards who first apprehended you. One of them is carrying your staff. You feel confused, as the Doctor's mouth twitches with a quick smile.

Your current captors hold up their hands in some sort of salute. The other two reciprocate. The four dwarves begin a conversation in their coarse language, one that almost immediately seems to turn into an argument.

The Doctor looks over at you conspiratorially. But you cannot return his knowing glance.

"What, you really don't know what they're saying?" he asks. You shake your head no. Confusion ripples briefly across his face. "Why _isn’t_ the TARDIS translating? Well, ah, no matter. They," he points at the new guards, "...are trying to claim custody over the prisoners. That's us," he adds nudging you, as if you were a dullard.  “But of course they,” he points at your current guards "…disagree."  

One of the guards points at your staff, and the Dwemer holding it says something terse in return.

The Doctor smile-growls, “Oh I love it.  The way the language is so embryonic, developing right before our eyes.  Forged by heat, like a sword or star.”  He looks at you.  “D’ya know they had no name for me?  Not a man, not a mer.  So they created one on the spot, and they all agreed upon it instantly.”

The Dwemer emphatically waves your staff around.  He shakes it, then plants it in the ground.  The face carved into the top of the wood stares emptily at the other dwarven guards.  No magic can be coaxed from it.

“Guess what it is.  Go on, guess,” prods the Doctor.

If you could sigh, you would. 

“ _Amzamakai_.  Isn’t that wonderful?  So round and chewy.  Bit regal, bit scary.  Means ‘many-endured’, or I guess ‘many-continued’.  And they all agreed the label for my kind was correct.  Instant telepathic polling!  Well, all except for them.”  He points at the guards holding your staff.  “They were oddly silent.”

They are not silent now, however, as their apparent disagreement with your current guards is escalating in loudness.  The dwarf nearest you removes his helmet and fluffs out his beard, as if it somehow adds to his argument.

The Doctor continues, his speech ramping up in speed.  “Now, these guys want to throw us in a mine.  Make us dig through dead rock looking for precious metals, even though it’s almost guaranteed there isn’t any.  They’ve looked for so long, and have found zippo.  Instead they reuse over and over whatever metal was in their armor when they first got here.  But I think they’re tired of recycling.  As punishments go, it’s futile and brutal.”

The dwarf holding your staff removes his helmet.  His beard is short and tidy.  Is that a good thing?  You have no idea about Dwemer masculine status symbols.  It is a bit silly to as an outsider, but they seem to be taking it quite seriously.

The Doctor, in his mad way, is smiling in his voice.  It is irritating and comforting at once.  “But these chaps, the ones we first bumped into?  They are Disciples of Light.  And they have something far better cooked up for us.”

The guard near you pushes you forward so you are now standing between the two pairs of guards.  You whip around, glowering at the impertinence.  The Doctor lightly touches your shoulder.

“Looks like they want us to choose our fate.”  The Doctor says something to the guards in Dwemeris and one of them responds by shaking his axe.  The Doctor turns to you.  “I’m going to remove your gag so you can make your choice.  But they want you to know that if you use your voicey-shout-thing, they will remove your head.  I promised you wouldn’t.”

You make no indication either way.  Presumptuous of him to make any swearing of oaths in your stead.

His hands hesitate in front of the gag.  “Soldier?  I would at least like to keep _my_ head, awright?  I mean sure, you could probably take three of them by yourself.  But the fourth one?  The Grimace-With-A-Beard-Hanging-Off-It?  He’d be mine and I haven’t done proper hand-to-hand combat for at least seven lifetimes…”

You roll your eyes and acquiesce out of annoyance more than anything else.

“Good.”  He unties the gag, and shoves the silky material in his pocket.  All four Dwemer shift their weight ever-so-slightly.  Grips tighten, breathing slows, sinews flex.  All unblinking eyes are on you.  “Well soldier, like I said, the um, Noise Brigade…”

“Tonal Guards,” you correct flatly. 

“Yes, yes.  They would like us to dig ourselves to death.  But personally, I think the Disciples of Light have the much better offer.”  He gestures at the pair with your staff.  “They would send us to where Disciples go to, um, retire.”

“Retire?”

“Yes.  Apparently it’s not so bad.  They’ll bring us food, water, the works.  All we have to do is perform some light guard duty.”

“You cannot be serious.  Picking our punishment?”

“It’s kind of an honor, actually.  Only a handful of Dwarves are even eligible to be Disciples.”

Your patience has worn incredibly thin.  “Doctor, why are you entertaining this so-called choice?  I could wipe out these…”

“But what about Beardy Grimace?  Eh soldier?  Are you going to leave me to die?”

You search his face.  He appears to be completely sincere about going along with the Dwemer idiocy.  But the speed of his speech, the lightness in tone means he is up to something.  Whatever it is, he is choosing not to share it with you.  Can you blindly trust his choice?

You take in a breath, and the dwarves lean in.  “The Disciples.  We shall go with them.”

If the Doctor is happy with your choice, he does not show it as he reports your decision in Dwmeris.  He points at the staff, and they relinquish it to him.  To you, he says, “Can’t have an old woman going without her walking stick, eh?”

“Indeed not, old man,” you reply.

The two Tonal Guards hold their hands up in a salute and the Disciples return it.  Prisoner exchange apparently complete, the Guards turn and start marching back towards the surface.

“Doctor, who are we guarding?”

“Ah, well.”  He scratches the back of his neck.

“Doctor?”

“Molag Bal.  It’s Molag Bal.”

“WHAT?”

“I mean, it can’t be all that bad, can it?”

The Disciples move to your sides, one at each arm, and urge you forward.  You pay them no mind, shouting at the Doctor.  “Give me my staff!  I am going to beat you to death with it!”

He crosses his arms.  “This is the better choice, really Soldier.”

You turn to one of the Dwemer as they push harder.  “Maybe I should mine instead.  I am rather good at digging, actually.  Once pulled five soul gems out of one geode vein.”

“I’m quite handy in a quarry myself, but no, this is good.”  The Disciples take no notice of your protests and start physically dragging you down the stone path.  The Doctor pats you on the back in a friendly manner.  “There’s only a moderate chance we’ll end up being driven slowly insane until our agonizing deaths.  I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

He looks behind you, watching the Tonal Guards departure.  You go silent, contemplating which thu’um to unleash on the Disciples, Doctor’s plan be damned.

“And…”  He heaves a sigh.  “They’re gone.”  The Doctor says something in Dwemeris, and they immediately release you.  One of them unties the binds around your wrists.

“What in Oblivion is going on?”  You hold your hand out towards your staff.

“I’m sorry Soldier, I had to make it look real.  I don’t doubt your skills with swords, but as an actress?”  He starts speaking again in Dwemeris and you are left holding your hand out.  You clear your throat.  He hesitates.  “Don’t beat me with it?” 

“Hmph.” 

He hands it over.  “For the Disciples to be able to help us, they needed to fool their brethren.  Make it seem like they would follow the Rani’s orders, too.”

“Do they not follow the Rani?”

“Only theoretically.  They act more as an independent clan of dwarves.  Main focus is keeping Molag Bal at bay.”

The four of you journey far down into the caves as the Doctor switches from speaking to the Dwemer, then translating to you.  He explains that the Disciples are bred especially for dealing with the Daedric Prince because they lack the ability to hear each other’s thoughts the way the rest of the dwarves do.  “Without a telepathic field, Molag Bal can’t control them.  As a side benefit, neither can the Rani.”

You continue descending, perhaps for hours, if time were a thing here.  The Doctor and Dwemer talk mostly to each other now.  The path is dimly lit by torches and the occasional plasma waterfall, but the dwarves know the way.  As they converse, you run your hands over the polished wood of your staff.  It is soothing to have a weapon again, some handle on your situation.  Since you arrived in Coldharbour, you have felt as if you were constantly on your back foot.  Afraid, angry, powerless.  You will not be giving up control to the Doctor so willingly again.

You turn a corner, and the Doctor holds out his arm to stop you.  “Wait a tick.”  The two guards walk ahead, taking a few torches off the wall and lighting several braziers with them.  You can now see that you are heading towards a pair of giant stone doors, similar in design to the ones you tried to go through when you first arrived in this plane.

The Doctor removes the thin brown cloth from his pocket that he had used as your gag.  He whips it in the air once, then loops it around his neck.  “I’m told that we will have to take a back way down to Molag Bal.  You sorta, um, broke their main entrance.”

“ _You_ are the one who kept pulling on the handle, Doctor.   _You_.”

He waves his hand carelessly.  “Me, you.  Daleks, toilet plungers with an attitude problem.  Samey same.  The point is, we are apparently getting sent down the food chute.  Should be interesting.”

“Doctor, why are we going down to Molag Bal at all?  I thought the whole guard duty thing was a ruse to fool the other Dwemer.”

He twists and pulls at the brown cloth around his neck, forming it back into the shape it was when you first met him.  You wonder idly if it is a status symbol amongst his people, like with the dwarves and beards.  “Not entirely.  Bal has something I need to get us out of here.  The Rani mentioned needing an ‘Anchor’ to escape.  The Disciples only know of one that yet functions, and it is down there.”

Or perhaps the cloth is a comfort, like your staff is for you.  The way the Doctor fidgets and smoothes it, settling it under his coat.  Is he afraid?

The Dwemer up ahead have finished lighting the way and now stand on either side of the massive doors.  The Doctor bumps his shoulder into yours.  “Come now Sould-jyah!  Musn’t keep evil telepathic demon-gods waiting!”

You make your way up to the entrance in silence.  Together, the Dwemer pull on a pair of levers.  As the doors open, the dwarves nod at you, their faces as expressionless as stone carvings.  Are they not coming with you?  It would seem not.

Through, then, to the other side.  Just you and the Doctor.

The huge doors groan shut and for a moment, all is peaceful.  The floor shines with black sheen as it does in the upper living areas.  To your left is an open archway hundreds of feet high and across.  A few azure plasma falls illuminate stone foot bridges presumably used by the Disciples for this or that errand, but they are completely deserted.  The other walls are solid stone, adorned with carvings Dwemer and Daedric in origin.  The Daedric statues are fierce and cruel, depicting creatures you hope to never encounter.  The Dwemer have apparently chosen not to deface their predecessors’ “art”, but have instead used their considerable skill to create images that are angular, severe yet stunning.  They are also, of course, bigger than the Daedric statues.  Solemn and wondrous, it gives you the same feeling you had when you arrived in Sovngarde.  The mysterious ceremony of someone else’s worship hall.

You are about to remark upon the unexpected beauty of the room when you notice the Doctor’s pensive expression.  He has ceased any forward motion and is staring at a circular piece of metal that is inlaid into the polished floor.  “Doctor?” you ask, surprised at his change of mood.

He does not change his gaze.  “What can you tell me about that?”

“Well, um…”  You leave his side and walk the hundred or so yards up to it.  The metal is not the gleaming yellow-gold of Dwarven make.  It is dull, the color of nothing.  However, it is not featureless.  Embossed in lines crisscrossing and around the rim are Daedric letters.  “I would say this is our door.”

“ _Trapdoor_ ,” he corrects.

“Yes, all right, trapdoor.  What of it?”

He still is not moving.  He inhales sharply and looks up at the rock ceiling.

You lightly tap the metal rim with your staff.  “It is a fairly straightforward door.  My Daedric is rusty but perhaps I can…”

“If I went straight back to the surface and waited, oh, a few billion years, I could see her again.”

His voice has gone faraway and small.  You feel a spike of concern.  “Doctor?”

He looks down in your direction, though clearly not really seeing you.  “Rose.  The woman I was...” he inhales again, reconsidering his words.  “The woman I was with the first time I was here.”

“You have been here before?!”  You are astonished and instantly annoyed he has not shared this fact with you.

His head bobs once.  “Hoped I was wrong, even when I knew I was right.  The cave drawings, the images of ‘the Beast’, even when I talked with the Disciples of Light, I kept thinking ‘ _maybe’_ …”  He gestures at the trapdoor.  “But now there can be no doubt.”  He finally starts walking towards you, his face grim but resolved.

“When were you here?  Why?”

“It was an accident.  The TARDIS sounded sick, tried to warn me.  But I was so cocky.”  The corner of his mouth twitches up at a memory.  “What, were we gonna go back inside?  The universe felt like a game when she was around.”

“How could you not recognize Coldharbour?  S’wit…”  You wave your arm around at the room.  “I know if you have been to one unending Daedric plane, you have been to them all but…”

“It didn’t look like this.  It doesn’t.  It won’t.  In the future.  The floors, the statues, the carvings.  Think it looks old now?  Give it a few more forevers.  Most of this will be just ruins.”  He stops next to you, looks down at the door.  “Except for that.”

“Coldharbour still exists that far in the future?  I do not know if that is a comfort or a woe.”

The Doctor shakes his head and clears his throat.  He starts walking around the door.  “You said these are Daedric letters?”

“Yes.  But Doctor…”

“TARDIS still won’t translate it.”

“How did you do it last time?” 

“Won’t translate Daedric.  Isn’t translating Dwemer.  Why not?”

“The last time you were here. How did you do it?”

He shrugs.  “Door just opened on it’s own.  We didn’t do anything special.” 

“No, Doctor.  How did you _leave_?  How did you escape Coldharbour?”

“Ah.  Well.”  He keeps studying the door.  “Bit of a miracle actually.  The TARDIS just appeared right where I needed it to.”

You sigh.  “I do not think that will happen this time.” 

“I think you’re right.  Soldier, can you read any of this?  Does it have directions?  A hint even?”

“I am not really…”  You are struck by a memory.  “My old aunt should be here.  My terrible, cranky aunt.”  You trace a letter with your walking stick.  “She was alive when we Dunmer still had a homeland.  The signs of Vvardenfell were apparently littered with these letters.  ‘The civilized alphabet.’”  You remember the creak in her speech, not as if over a vast distance but as if it were a few moments ago.  Your people had raspier voices then.  There in her sitting room, the cold barely beaten back by the fireplace, the light flickered on her well-worn books, her religious texts on Daedra worship.  Now you wish you had paid a little more attention to her rantings.

So you try.  You look at the nearest character. “This is a _meht_ .  An _oht_ …”  You shake your head.  “Even if I can decipher the letters, I do not know the words.  When my aunt used this alphabet, it was in our language, not Daedric.”

The Doctor continues walking around the door.  “If this is the door to the jail, why is it in the language of the captive?  The Disciples of Light caged him up, not a Daedra.”

You think for a moment.  “Metal is at a premium.  Dwemer cannot find any more to smelt than what they already had in their armor.”

“So they use something already here?  Something Daedric?”  He takes out his sonic screwdriver and uses it to illuminate the door further.  “I think we are looking for newer letters.  Something that the dwarves added later.”

You both scour the metal, trying to discern the age of the characters.  It all looks the same to you, yet somehow, the Doctor spots the difference.  He points, “There, right in the center!”

Leaning over on your staff, you squint.  “ _Ayem_ … _vehk_ …”  You read out all the letters, but they still are nonsensical to you.

The Doctor clicks his tongue.  “ _Molto bene_!  You don’t put neon exit signs on the Sistine Chapel, do you?  Our friends used Daedric letters to transliterate Dwemer words…so it would look nice!”

Yet again, the Doctor is excitedly spouting off on tangents you do not understand.  You are starting to see those as a good sign, but you are impatient to get to the point.  “Alright alright, what does it say?”

He clears his throat, as if preparing a grand speech.  “From tone, silence.”  He looks around, as if expecting something to happen.

Nothing does.

He says it again, louder, “FROM TONE, SILENCE!”

The door does not budge.  You sigh, “Doctor…”

He turns on his sonic screwdriver.  “Last time, we got down here and it just…wham!  Everything shook, we fell over…”

“That is not how this works.”  You step up onto the door.

The Doctor looks at the floor behind him.  “Well, _Ida_ fell over, I was probably fine but…”

You motion with your staff.  “Come now.”

He turns back to you.  “If it opens, we’ll just fall through!”

“How is your levitate spell, Doctor?” 

“I don’t do spells.”

“Then we shall have to do it my way.”

He studies your face, briefly uncertain, then jumps up onto the door.  “You do love giving orders, eh Dragonborn?”

You ignore his slight and continue, secretly reveling in the fact that he got it wrong.  “It is nice that you could read these words.  ‘From tone, silence.’  But all we ever really had to do is this.”  You guide him to the middle circle and stand over the Daedric-Dwemer words.

Gears shift underfoot.  You lean hard on your staff to keep balance.  The door retracts in sections into the surrounding walls, and suddenly you are floating on air.  You begin to drift downwards slowly at an even pace.  The Doctor looks below him in wonder.  “Some sort of…gravity well?”

“Levitation runes used to be a lot more common generations ago.  For horker-hands like you that ‘don’t do spells.’”

“The gravity funnel!  Use the power source at the center of the planet…”  He stops mid-thought and looks at you.  “This fall was a lot less pleasant last time.  Soldier, it would have been handy if you’d been around before.”  You smile at each other.

“Perhaps you could have used my services in that war of yours.”  His smile evaporates, but you continue needling him.  “‘Fight for the whole universe’ you said.  But you do not seem like a warrior to me.  You are as a priest, trying to save the world entire using only divine words.”

He does not respond to your teasing.  Instead, he stares down at the seemingly endless pit beneath you.  Are his eyes darkening, or is it just the light from the room above growing dimmer?

You let your voice take on an air of silly bravado.  “How did you ever do without me?   A proper ‘soldier’ to save your skin.  Do your fighting.  Maybe I could have even fixed that spiddal stick hair of yours…”

“Is this because of the Rani?” he asks suddenly.

“What?”

His body is getting hard to see, the light from above too weak to illuminate much further down than this.  But you can just make out that he is looking at you again.

“You having a go at me.  You aren’t joking, are you?”

He is right.  You are, admittedly, exasperated.  The way he stops you from handling business, from ending problems before they get too out of control.  His air of supremacy, his _presumption_ that he knows best how to help the people you have dedicated your entire life to saving; you have had enough.  “You should have let me shout that madman off the cliff.”

“No more,” he says.

“Paarthunax warned me.  Last living dragon.  Before I met you, he said to beware an ‘Aldolein’.  And the Nerevarine, legendary hero not seen in Tamriel in an age, sent to me by Azura herself.   All so I could stop the Dwemer invasion before it began.  But instead, here we are, drifting down in this damnable darkness while the Rani has your machine ready to make war.  All because you are a weak-neck n’wah!”

“No more,” he repeats simply.

He is silent, and you are not sorry.  Perhaps you have more in common with your vicious old aunt than you care to admit.

You can no longer see anything.  Air lightly moves across your skin, rustles your hair.  Based on the direction of the breeze, you assume you are still falling, but it is impossible to tell for sure.  All you can hear is your heart beat, quickened by the quarrel.  And then –

“My people are all gone because of me.”

That cannot be right.  “What?”

“There was a war.  My people, the Time Lords, against an ancient race of killing machines.  Back and forth, through time.  It was…”  You hear him take a sharp breath.  He struggles to maintain the evenness in his voice.  “…it was unlike anything you can imagine.  I fought, killed, was as much a ‘soldier’ as you could want.  Worse than a soldier.”  His accent thickens, goes rough.  “I am _brilliant_ at exterminating.”

A chill goes down your spine.  Though you cannot see his face, you can sense it in his words – he is not emptily boasting.  You think back to what you saw in the Elder Scroll.  Screaming, searing, dead children, terrifying machines flying in the sky at greater speed than any dragon could ever achieve.  And what you briefly saw in the Rani’s mind; she ran away only to be attacked by her own.  What was she fleeing?

The Doctor continues, “The Lord President Rassilon decided in his infinite wisdom that our whole society should turn into pure energy.  Ha!  As if that did the Great Old Ones any good.  And just to make sure none of the horrors survived, he decided to destroy the Time Vortex and take out the whole universe.”

Though you do not entirely understand, it is clear that this was a terrible decision by their leader.  “Burn down the whole house to kill some spiders?  Did no one challenge him?”

“That day, the last day, there was no stopping him through normal means.  There was only one way to end it.  I had no choice.”  He pauses.  “There was a weapon…ah, if you can call it that.  A sentient weapon.  Judging the user for all eternity.  A button.  It would trap everyone involved in the war into one second.  The Moment.  Everything, every _one,_ would burn.  And the rest of the universe saved.”

You think back to the Doctor’s conversation with the Rani.  How guilty and miserable the Doctor looked.  “You pushed the button.”

You can hear the defeat in his voice.  “All gone.  No more.”

It is a lot to try to make sense of.  A button that ends wars?  A foe so abhorrent that ending everything for everyone would be preferable to continuing the battle?  And this slight, disheveled man beside you, with his rabbit-pace tongue and aversion to violence, ending up with the worst part to play.  Astonishing.

“I never thought of you as someone who would do that.”  You are genuinely sorry for…everything.  By way of apology, you do something so odd, you surprise yourself.  In the dark, where no one can see, you reach out your hand for his.  Locating it, you lace your fingers through.  He grasps back.

In his voice, a catch.  “Thank you.”

You stay that way, your hand warming his, until your feet find the ground again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


	14. Chapter 14

 

The Doctor turns on his sonic for light.  In the blue cast, you see that you’re in a small, roundish cave.  The ceiling is low, other than the pit you just came down.  There is but one other outlet, cut evenly into the wall to your left.  A single torch is mounted near this opening, but is not lit.  Possibly snuffed recently, given the smell of smoke.  “Do you think they detected us?” you ask.

The Doctor holds up a finger to quiet you.  “Listen!”

Echoing down the hallway beyond the opening, you hear the sound of metal clashing.  “Smith work?” you ask.  But as you finish your words, you know it cannot be.  This is not the methodical, mundane hammering of steel.  It is erratic, improvised.  Combat.

“Behind me,” you command in a whisper, and you start down the hall, staff at the ready.

It is a short walk, less than 30 seconds, to get to the next open chamber.  It is large, cavernous, only lit by a handful of campfires.  No blue plasma can be seen or heard.  Before you can take in much more of your surroundings, a dark figure plows into you.  “Help me!” he shouts.

With the force of his body, you turn and hand him off to the Doctor.  A warning arrow lands at your feet, and you whirl back around to search the cavern.  There is slight movement beside one of the fires, and now you can sort of make out the silhouettes.  Silent shadows, bodies, Dwarves.  All armed, all facing you and the man who just pleaded for help.

“Please,” he sputters behind you.  “Molag Bal’s made them all go mad.  They want to kill me.  They want to free the Prince!”

You glance back at him, try to see his face.  His eyes are wild, terrified.  He is wearing a tattered robe, similar to that of many of the other Dwemer.  He has no armor to speak of beyond a pair of metal gauntlets.  And no identifiable weapon.

“A near-dozen against one unarmed man?” you say.  You study the stances of the others in the cavern.  They are not attacking, not yet, but they stand at the ready.

“What happened?” asks the Doctor.

He paws at his own beard.  “He must have got to them in their sleep, serjo.  In dreams.  You can hear him sometimes, screaming, terrible.  They are going to let him out!”

You raise your voice to a boom, let it echo off the rock walls.  “What say you to this charge?”  No response.  Not even a shuffle, or shifting of weight in their feet. 

The Doctor’s voice is low, cautioning.  “They are deaf.”

You ask again anyway.  “Are you thralls to the Daedric Prince?”

“All the Disciples down here are deaf, Soldier.”  He clears his throat, drawing your attention.  He discreetly gestures with his head at the lone Dwemer.

You narrow your eyes at the Dwarf and he sputters.  “I just…it has not completely robbed me yet.  The process takes time.  When we arrive here, we eat special fungi that takes away the faculty and I only came of late…”  He frantically looks back and forth between you and the Doctor, like a rabbit sniffing the breeze.

“Now you must know how the Falmer felt,” you say pointedly.  There is a momentary flash in the Dwemer’s eyes, hard to fully discern in the dark.  Is it recognition?  Anger?  Do they even remember their former slaves, the Snow Elves?

The Doctor speaks with a deliberate evenness.  “Fascinating.” 

A breath leaves the Dwarf, relief.  “It is our sworn duty.  To protect those in the light by standing perpetual watch down here in the…”

“Yes, and also the fact that you seem perfectly able to understand the Dwarf language now, Soldier.”

Before you can react, the Dwemer produces a hidden dagger from within the folds of his robes.  With his free hand, he seizes the Doctor by his hair.  He thrusts the blade of the knife to the Doctor’s throat, which in this moment seems especially narrow and fragile.

Behind you in the cavern, you can hear shifting and movement, but you keep your eyes fixed on the Dwarf.  His face has changed completely.  Gone is the simpering hare; here now stands a sabre cat ready to pounce. 

The Doctor puts his hands up.  “Shoulda seen that coming.”

“Who are you?” you ask.

In a voice now deep and vain, he howls, “I am the endless night!  The flameless fire!  I am the rage and pain unending…”

“The Beast has taken his mind,” says the Doctor. 

The Dwemer and the Doctor are just out of reach of your staff.  Even the quickest flick to his head would require a step forward from you, and in that time, a creature possessed by the will of Molag Bal can easily sink that metal into the Doctor’s flesh. Depending on the severity of the wound, you may be able to heal him before he drowns in his own fluid.  Blood in the mouth, tastes of metal…

“Yes, by all means Mortal, test my reflexes!” proclaims the Dwemer.

You narrow your eyes.  “I accept.  IIZ SLEN!”  In an instant, ice forms around the Doctor, freezing him and temporarily protecting him from the Dwemer’s dagger.  “Are you not faster than the speed of sound?  Or are you merely a Dwarf after all, with only the borrowed voice of a Daedric prince?”

Wordlessly, he slashes wildly out at you with the dagger.  You catch his forearm with your free hand.  Holding it tightly, you cast your simplest flame spell, maintaining the fire for just a few moments until it reaches his gauntlet.  The heat radiates through the metal plating and he drops the dagger.  In a panic, he wrests his arm away from you, furiously yanking at the glove to get it off.  You see strange markings on his now-naked hand.  Black writing, Daedric?

There is a grunt of pain, in the voice of the Dwemer himself, not Molag Bal.  Is the mer still in there, somewhere?  Can he be saved from this madness?  You scoop up the discarded weapon, holding it defensively.

The Dwarf takes a jagged breath, then resumes the talk of his master.  “This body is not the fastest, nor strongest.  But what selection did I have from this colony of ants?”

You take a test swing, fast and torso-level, nothing that would leave you too open to retaliation.  He easily dodges. 

“I can hear your thoughts, Dunmer.  Feeble as this one is…”  You swing again, a combo with your staff and dagger.  He backs away against the rock wall, not bothering to try to return a hit. “…you are no youthful butterfly yourself.  Fly you nevermore.”

“Krosis zu’u ni hi hind.”  _ (Sorry to disappoint.) _  You sweep at his feet with your staff and he laboriously jumps away, heading towards the pit landing area.

There is a coughing, cruel laugh from the Dwemer.  “Oh, you fancy yourself a dragon, do you?  How delightful.”

“Dwemer,” you say evenly.  “You can shut him out.”

“Unfortunate for you, to remain a flightless dragon.”

“His voice has no power over your body.  It is yours.  Yours alone.”  Can you reach him?  The Dwemer still trapped inside?  You glance over at the still-frozen Doctor.  This sort of absurd thing, attempting to talk down an opponent, is more his specialty than yours.  It would be unwise to free the Doctor, even if his words work better than any Breton charm spell.  Without a hostage, Molag Bal has no leverage.

“I still have one hostage,” says the Dwemer in Bal’s voice.

You look the Dwemer in the eye, searching for any hint of rebellion or fear or struggle.  “You do not have to be his hostage.  You can wall up the voice…”

“You aging insect, trapped like a fly in my house.”

“…I know it is hard,  _ believe me _ I know.  The sound is powerful; the effect seems insurmountable…”

“You have no way to leave unless I open a window.  You cannot save your swarm in the Tamriel hive without my aid.”

“…But you do not have to bend your will.  You can separate yourself from the creature.”

There is a flicker in his face, a loosening of the jaw, confusion in his eyes.  “ _ Thuangz _ ?”

It is working!  You can hardly believe it.  “Yes, yes Dwemer.  Hello.”

His eyes cloud over, but his jaw remains unclenched.  In a weaker tone, Bal says through the Dwarf, “Come find me, Elf.  Free me from my chains, and I can end the invasion of your world before it begins.  I would transform this infestation of vermin that has debased my realm into loyal minions!  They would trouble you no further.”

The Dwemer slouches over, exhausted.  He mutters something you do not understand.  You go over to him, help steady him against the wall.  He seems dazed, but not really worse for wear.  “Stay here a moment,” you say, even though you know he can no longer understand your words.

You rush back over to the opening of the cavern and kneel by the Doctor’s prone body.  You take one hard whack at the ice with your staff.  The frost shatters, ending the spell.  The Doctor sits bolt upright.  “Oi!  What’d I ever do to you?”

“Doctor, I did it!”  You are smiling, no, grinning.  This goes beyond the usual pride in your actions.  This is genuine joy.  “I helped him.  The Dwemer man speaks like Bal no more.”

The Doctor cocks his head, unbelieving but curious.  “I don’t know if that’s…”

You see that the Dwemer is walking up the passage, coming towards you.  “He’s free.  Look Doctor …”  His gait is timid, unsure.  You maintain your giddy manner and wave him over.  “Come on!”

“Soldier, wait…”

Twang and whiff noises happen behind you.  Objects whiz over your head.  The Dwemer stops, then falls to the ground.  As soon as the other Dwarves had gotten a clear shot, they took their fellow Disciple out.  Dropping the dagger and staff, you slowly crawl over to the body.  You roll him over; his eyes are staring.  Five arrows in the chest.  You take his hand.  No pulse.

The Doctor stands over you.  “I’m sorry.”

You say nothing.  The Dwemer’s hand no longer has the Daedric markings.  Were they gone before?  You did not think to check.  Had you truly succeeded in helping this man before the end?

“They were just doing what they thought they had to do, Soldier.  It may not be possible to…”

“I have to believe it is,” you say quietly.  “Taming the voices must be possible.”

The Doctor puts his hand on your shoulder, and for once, it is a comfort.  You look up at him.  You are glad he is unmarked by the encounter.

“I was doing my best Doctor masquerade.  Trying to  _ talk _ a Daedric Prince away.  You should have seen it, sera.”

“But did you really have to put me on ice?  I’m freezin’ now.”  He tugs the flaps of his brown coat, shaking water off.

“It was the fastest way to protect you.”

A slight smirk comes across his face.  “Aw, you were worried?  About lil ole me?”

“I did not say that.”  He helps you to your feet.  “If anything, I was…concerned that while you were captured, he would somehow make your hair even worse.”

“Ha!  I got the mighty Dragonborn worried!”

* * *

 

She is running.  There is a red glow, fire all around her, death from the sky.  She is afraid.  She is making calculations.  She refuses to let it end here. 

“It will all happen again, Mortal,” says a male voice.  She does not hear it. 

There are bursts of loud noise, she ducks behind a ruined wall.  Soldiers dressed in matching uniforms rush by, searching.  She waits until they are gone, then darts out.  There are bodies, burning, choking smell.  She needs to get out of the city.

“It will happen to your world.  And all the worlds.  The Time Lords ruin everything they touch,” says the voice.

She’ll need help.  Not Time Lords.  The villagers, they will be easier to manipulate.

“Only I can stop the destruction,” intones the voice.  “Let me save you from their arrogance.”

Red glow.  It’s actually small and far away.  There are shadows all around it, flickering on the walls around you.  But they are not soldiers, just Dwemer preparing a meal.  Domestic sounds are coming from a few dozen yards away – scraping on a pot, boiling of liquid, low-throated tuneless humming…

You are awake now.

The humming Dwemer sees you and picks up a clay vase.  She is wearing a thin robe, color indiscernible in the low light.  She wears her hair in braids like many of the male Dwemer, but has no beard.  

She crouches next to you and offers the vase.  Inside is an odorless liquid.  Water?  By Azura, have they somehow found water in this ruined plane?

At this point, it has been so long since you’ve had a drink, you don’t much care if it’s poison or plasma or piss – you gratefully slug from the vessel.  Water, indeed.  You drink it indecorously, rivulets streaming out of the corners of your mouth.  When it is empty, you rub the spilled water over your hard face.

You look up at the unsmiling woman.  “Much obliged sera,” you say, handing back the vase.  She says nothing, only resumes her humming as she walks back toward the supper fire.

The familiar silhouette of the Doctor’s hair turns towards you, thrown into relief by the light.  Hearing your voice, he waves you over to where he is sitting with a handful of Dwemer men.  Did he sleep?   _ Does _ he sleep?

You pull yourself to your feet and stretch.  Your muscles and bones ache, both due to the exertion of the last few days and from the hard mat you were lying on.  Still, you suppose it was a kindness of these Dwarves to share their bedroll, their water, their space.  They were feeling generous after you ‘captured’ their tainted brethren. 

You can just make out a group of four Dwemer against a far wall tending to a body laid horizontal on a slab.  They have removed his robe and glove.  Two are cleaning his flesh, one is braiding his beard anew.  A fourth is murmuring repeated words and casting short flame spells, shooting little sparks into the stone.  What will they do with his remains?  In your many trips through Dwemer ruins, you do not recall ever seeing burial grounds, tombs, or crypts.  But clearly they are preparing him, with considerable care, for some sort of ritual.

As you get closer to the silent group near the Doctor, you can see that they are communicating, albeit without speech.  The Doctor is using your staff to draw circles in the dirt, occasionally erasing old ones and scratching in new ones.  A few of the Dwemer also have sticks, writing in kind.

“Morning, Soldier!” the Doctor calls cheerfully.  As you get closer, he gestures at the elderly Dwarf sitting next to him.  “Allow me to introduce Bthuand Mzahnch, head Disciple, and erstwhile right-hand-mer to Kagrenac.”

You dip your head, unsure of the Dwemer customs for greeting.  He returns the gesture, slowly and carefully.  His completely white beard is loose, the ends scraggly.  The unkempt facial hair gives him the aura of a man who has seen much, and is nearing the end.

“Old Bthuand here has very interesting theories about metaphysics and time.”  The Doctor smiles at him.  “Mostly rubbish of course, but he’s still lightyears ahead of the rest of you lot.”

Bthuand leans forward and determinedly scrapes something into the dirt.

The Doctor’s smile fades, and he nods his head.

“What did he say?” you ask.

“Nothing…just, stuff about eggs…”

With effort, Bthuand drops his stick and grabs the Doctor’s hand.  Shaking but resolute, he pushes it toward the Doctor’s clean-shaven face, until the Doctor is holding his own chin.  With his other hand, Bthuand tugs once on his shabby beard. 

The Doctor mimics this movement.  “By my beard,” he says solemnly.

Apparently satisfied, Bthuand releases the Doctor’s hand.

“That was not about eggs,” you say.

The Doctor glances at you.  “Ah, he just needed me to swear an oath, vow, thing.  Before he’d help us.”

You narrow your eyes.  “What did you sign us up for this time?”

“No, it’s not like that.  He just…well…”  The Doctor scratches the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed.  “He doesn’t think too highly of my kind.”

“Men?  I am inclined to agree with him.”

“ _ Amzamakai.   _ Time Lords.  He figured out the Rani’s disguise.”  Having retrieved his stick, Bthuand scrapes more markings in the dirt.  The Doctor gestures at the writing.  “He is none-too-pleased how the Rani tricked everyone into believing that the device back on Nirn, that ‘Heart of Lorkhan’, was safe.  He made them believe no harm would come to them.  That he could help the Dwemer transcend their mortal bodies.  And apparently Bthuand helped convince his fellow Dwemer to go along with it all.”  The Doctor exhales and closes his eyes.  “Another rushed experiment, sloppy work.  Never could properly look after the lab mice, could you old man?”

“What is he saying now?” you ask.

The Doctor opens his eyes and reads the writing.  “He says he’ll give us access to Molag Bal’s prison.  It’s where Bthuand hid the last Anchor.  To protect his fellow Dwemer from the Rani’s ongoing cruelty.”

“What did the Rani do?”

“When the Dwemer arrived here, they had repeated clashes with Daedra and Dremora.  They learned from those they captured that Molag Bal had made several devices long ago, Anchors, that were meant to bring together Coldharbour and Nirn.  Apparently, someone from your world stopped Molag Bal, saved your planet.”

You nod.  “The Planemeld.  But Doctor, that happened centuries  _ after _ the Dwemer disappeared.”

The Doctor shrugs.  “Time is squishy, easy to affect.  Especially so in this place.  Who knows what year it is ‘now’ in Skyrim?  Anyway, the Rani found a few of the remaining Anchors, and attempted to power them up.  Figured he could send himself back through them.  They run on…”

“Souls.  Daedric Princes love blood sacrifices.”

“Well, the energy of every single Dwemer in existence wasn’t enough to power one Anchor without the help of Molag Bal to operate it properly.  Bthuand here says the Rani was intent on figuring it out, even if it meant murdering every last Dwarf.  Bthuand realized ‘Kagrenac’ was not truly one of his kin, perhaps not even of his planet.”

You look down at the old Dwarf and scoff.  “Feeling bitter about getting betrayed?  I am sure the Falmer would have some things to say about that – if only they could still speak.”

Bthuand blinks at you, uncomprehending.

The Doctor continues, “Bthuand destroyed the Anchors except one, which the Disciples somehow engineered to act as the prison for Molag Bal.  Genius, really.  The Rani would never risk coming this close to a telepath as powerful as Bal.  Too dangerous.”

“Will it not be just as dangerous for us, Doctor?”

He rises to his feet, “Nah, we’ll be protected.”

You hold your hand out for your staff.  “By what?”

“By…” he leans over and lowers his voice.  “Look you’re gonna scare these chaps if you keep talking that way.”  The Dwemer continue in their mundane activities, completely ignoring you and the Doctor.  “Bthuand says there are a couple of pitchers on pedestals, and they act as the Anchor’s…”

You impatiently snatch your staff away from the Doctor.  “Why do we not try my Amulet of Recall?  Surely that is safer than anything involving Daedric Princes.”  With your free hand, you pull the charm out from under your shirt.

The Doctor raises an eyebrow.  “That bit of kit from Neverwhatsit?  Does it do long distance?”

You lift the necklace over your head, then loop the leather strap twice around your wrist.  “This will be so much more pleasant than blood rituals, believe me.”  You look up at the Doctor and shake your hand.

“I don’t think your man Nevermore liked me much.  What if it only takes you and leaves me here?  Maybe that was his plan all along…”  While protesting, he dutifully puts his hand through the strap, and takes hold of your forearm.  He waggles his eyebrows at you.  “…to get you all to himself?  Eh?”

You momentarily picture the Nerevarine, with his black hair and playful demeanor.  The corner of your mouth twitches up.  “Hush.  It will not take only me.” 

You close your eyes and try to focus your thoughts upon the blue charm.  Though you have never used one before, you assume it will function like any other magic item.  You breathe in, gather your energy, and breathe out.

You open your eyes.  You are still in the Dwemer cavern.

“You’re right Soldier.  It won’t take you.  At all.”

You tap the spindly object with the top of your staff.  “I do not understand.  It is as if aetherial energy is…”

The Doctor has started scanning the amulet with his sonic screwdriver.  “Doesn’t work at all.”

“…yes, all right.  But can it be made to work, somehow?”

He shakes his head.  “Can’t teleport through space if you’re out in the void.  Coordinates are meaningless.”

It is to be the Daedric ritual, then.  “I see.”

You unloop the strap from your hand and the Doctor’s.  Before he lets you go, he squeezes your arm.  “You’re gonna have to work harder to ditch me, seems like.”

You pull your arm away.  “Do you even fully realize the danger, Doctor?”

He tightens his lips.  “Yeah.  I do.”

You shake your head and briskly walk away.  You cannot believe that the Doctor is proposing you both partake in a barely-understood Daedric blood sacrifice.  Perhaps in your youth, you would have taken something this outlandish in stride; after all, you are the same woman who jumped through a Dragon Priest’s portal to wind up in Sovngarde, and that was not even the craziest thing you did that day.

Do you really have a choice?  You have to get back home, somehow.  Prepare everyone for battle.

You gaze around the cavern.  On the walls are half-finished carvings.  You can see partial faces of people, circular writings, figures resembling the constructs they used to build back in Tamriel.  Dwemer are still Dwemer wherever they go, it would seem.  Hallways lead off to other chambers, making it hard to guess the exact number of Disciples that live down here.

Without entirely meaning to, you wind up standing near the dead Dwemer.  They have finished cleaning him, and now the only visitor he has is an old woman sitting by his side.  She is holding his hand, the same one you held, and occasionally casting a small fire spell directed into the stone slab.

“Krosis,” you say.  She does not hear.

“Bthuand wants us to stop a war,” says the Doctor, coming up behind you.

“Then we are in agreement.”

“He wants us to help his people.  Save the other Dwemer from the Rani.  They’re not themselves, they’ve become unthinking, unquestioning.”

“My priority is the people of Skyrim.”

“The Dwarves are slaves, Soldier.  Operating on instinct and instruction.  They’ve had the Rani, Kagrenac, imposing his will in their heads for millennia.  Every little facet of their lives, every waking hour dictated...”

“I have a duty.”

“Are you going to battle, fighting only for your chosen side?  Or will you fight for peace, for the good of everyone?”

“What difference does it make to you, Doctor?”

The old woman throws a flame at the stone.  It sparkles, then disappears in smoke.

“I asked about the Falmer.”  You put both hands on your staff, then look evenly at the Doctor.  He continues, “Bthuand said his house didn’t live in an area with Snow Elves, though he had heard about them.”

“Convenient excuse.”

“He said there were rumors about an uprising.  Skirmishes underground.  Before all the Dwemer wound up here, the Falmer actually did begin to rebel.”

You are, admittedly, surprised.  “Truly?”

“Bthuand said they called it the War of the Crag.  Apparently it was still going until the day the Dwarves all left Nirn.  He doesn’t know why Falmer act like beasties now, though.  Last he heard, Snow Elves could all talk just fine.  Better than he can, these days.”

So, The Betrayed fought back.  Perhaps you have misjudged, thinking of them as ‘The Weak’ all this time.  And the Dwemer, their fellow elves, did not rob them of their culture or language. 

“Soldier, I have to try.  As a Time Lord.  Clean up his mess, save everyone.”

“Including the Rani?  And the Dwemer?”

“I have a duty.”

You look again at the dead Dwemer and the woman.  Down by her feet, you notice a bow and quiver with a handful of arrows.  Had she shot the man she now mourns?  

You turn back to face the cavern.  “You can try.  But I will be there, weapon in hand, just in case.”

The two of you walk back to the campfire where Bthuand is already standing, waiting to escort you to Molag Bal.

* * *

 

Before the door even opens, you hear the voice.  The one that was taunting you in your dream is now out loud for all to hear.  “Yes mortals, it is inevitable.  Free me from this dungeon.  Release your Prince and save your friends.”

The Doctor turns to you.  “What has he been promising you?”

You say nothing.

“Soldier, you must clear your mind.  Focus on our mission.  He will use your thoughts against you.”

Bthuand runs his hand through his beard, then bows his head at you.  He points at a lever in the wall, then without looking back, slowly trudges back down the passage you came.

“Come see the Deathless Prince!  Together, we will crush the defilers!”

“Are you ready?” asks the Doctor.  You take a deep breath, then nod.  The Doctor pulls the lever.

The stone grinds away.  A blast of heat, black red flashes that momentarily blind you.  It is not a beneficial brightness, like that of the sun or candles.  Stars freely release their light, for the gaze of all.  But here, the Beast devours flame, light, energy.  This is death fire, light consumed, then existing no more.  He pulls everything to himself like an unending inhale.

You blink.  You can see him more clearly now.  Out in front of you, just an arrow’s flight away, the ground drops off into a fiery chasm.  And there, standing over a hundred feet tall, is Molag Bal.  The pictures you have seen of him in books did not remotely capture how he is terror made manifest.  Horns, gnashing teeth, sinew, bone…you have fought countless creatures with these traits.  But here, the sum is worse than the parts. 

It is not only the flames that are anguished, surrendering their essence to the dread Prince.  Your dragon-grade will and presence of mind falters.  You involuntarily squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head away.

“Come on,” says the Doctor.  “The pitchers are ahead.”  You open your eyes, focus.  A few dozen yards away are indeed two pedestals with a yellowy pitcher perched on each. 

“The vermin elves will overrun your home, just like they did mine!  They will stop at nothing.  They are a plague, a disease, and I am the cure!”

You concentrate on walking.  One foot in front of the other.

“Only I can stop the attack on your realm.  You are so weak, powerless.  You believe that man next to you will help?”

Keep walking.

“He will betray you to save his own.”

You glance at the Doctor.  He appears unbothered by Molag Bal’s ravings.  “Blah blah,” he mutters, taking out his sonic screwdriver.

“The last of your kind don’t want you, urchin of Gallifrey.  You only make everything worse.  Are you not used to the loneliness yet?”

“Oh get some new material!” he shouts as he nears the first pitcher.

Go forward.  You are nearly there.  Do not give in to suspicion.  The Doctor would not deceive you…would he?

As you step up next to him, you say, “It would seem you have nerves of steel, sera.”

The Doctor runs his screwdriver over the pitcher.  His eyes dart up at Bal, then return to his task.  “I already passed my test.”

Next to the pitcher is a black Daedric dagger.  Ceremonial, ornate.  A jagged blade designed for maximum pain.  Clearly it is meant for use in the ritual.

The Doctor wants you to bleed for this.

“Ach!” you say out loud.  The Doctor stops his process.

“Awright?”

“Yes, yes, what do we do now?”

The Doctor manipulates people like you to do his dirty work.  Don’t trust him.

“Not exactly sure.”  The Doctor removes two soul gems from his pocket.  “Got these from those Dwemer automatons a few days ago.  Think these will do the trick?”

“Only me and my true worshippers can activate the Dark Anchors!” rumbles Molag Bal.

You shake your head.  “The Disciples said the Rani sacrificed many Dwemer to this device.  The energy in those petty gems will not be nearly enough.”

“Bow to me and I can send you home!”

The Doctor ignores Bal.  “Worth a try anyway, eh?”  He drops a soul gem in the pitcher.  Nothing happens. 

You told him it wouldn’t work.  Arrogant man.  Always disregarding your valuable input.

The Doctor fishes the soul gem back out of the pitcher and busies himself again with his sonic screwdriver.

The misery emanating from Molag Bal is churning in the air.  It cooks you, broils you, sucking the hope out of your body like moisture from a roast chicken.  Earlier when the Dwemer gagged you with the tainted cloth, you let your mind drift to a pleasant memory to try to escape the fear potion’s effect.  But you should not use that method to brace yourself now.  No, now you should, you  _ must _ think of nothing at all.

“Maybe I can activate it a different way, change the resonance…”

“No, you can’t,” you find yourself saying.

No chance of escape without the aid of the God of Schemes.  The Doctor will only mislead you.  The Rani will bring the Dwemer back to Nirn, make war on man and mer alike.  They will enslave other races, force them to build a great machine…

“Soldier, did you say ‘can’t’?”

Molag Bal, Harvester of Souls can change it.  But not you, puny mortal.  The Rani will make a device that kills the stars, light, time.  No hope is left for you.  Anyone you’ve ever known...

Before you can stop yourself, you say aloud, “Anyone I have ever loved is  _ already _ dead.”

A pulse, a breath in from Molag Bal.  The misery surrounding you changes shape, no longer needing a general assault on your senses, it has found the profoundest crack in your shield.  “Yes, that is true Mortal.  They both blamed you, all the way to the end.  Your greed, your craven lust for  _ more _ , it was their undoing.”

“Soldier, stay with me!” shouts the Doctor, straining to be heard.  But his voice is feeble, unpersuasive.

“What happened to him?” you ask.

“He can’t tell you!”  The Doctor reaches for you, but you are walking towards Molag Bal.

“Do you really wish to know?”  Molag Bal makes a hideous noise, screeching and cruel.  Laughter at your agony.  “You want to know the fate of someone who hated you?”

You continue closer to Molag Bal, leaning on your staff.  You are less than a dozen feet from the precipice, the flames surrounding the Prince close enough to hurt.  But you care nothing for the heat, only for the answer you have been yearning for.  The one piece of information you have needed for decades.  “What happened to him?”  

“Soldier, no…” says a tiny voice, somewhere.

“Let the despair in.  Remember!” commands the Lord of Brutality.  And so, you do.

You were returning home from Whiterun.  Dusk had turned the forest into shadows, and the wind whispered of the cooling Hearthfire month to come.  The silhouette of Heljarchen loomed on the horizon, and you looked forward to some mazte and supper with the family.  You heard someone staggering wildly through the trees before you had seen him.

“Thane?  Milady?!” a man’s voice shouted.

“Who beckons?”

“Thane!”  A body suddenly was upon you, grasping and pawing.  “Oh, it’s you, praise Talos.”

You steadied him as best you could.  “Gregor?”  He wouldn’t let go of your hand and left wet marks on your arms.  “Gregor, report.”

“My Thane, I tried to keep them away!  Fight them off.”

“Who?”

“Dragonborn, they’re gone.  He’s gone!”

With your free hand, you had cast a candlelight spell.  You saw the face of your steward, blood-smeared and red-eyed.  “Gregor, who is gone?”

“Seven or eight of ‘em.  At sunset.  I tried… _ we _ tried…Vorstag…”  You wrestled your hand free from his grasp and ran towards the hall.  “My Thane, forgive me!”

“LAAS YAH NIR!”  Your thu’um had come up empty, revealed no living creatures nearby beyond Gregor.  Whoever had attacked was now far away.  Still you ran, hard as you could, up to your house. 

The despair had awakened in your chest.  Like it does now, to please the Daedric Lord.

On the lawn were bodies.  One of them was wearing boots you recognized. 

The shocked dread moved around you, emanated outward to your arms and throat as you hoped in vain to see a life-aura around his body.  Defeat made itself at home in your bones as you stopped, stock-still, almost in an imitation of your dead husband in the mud.  “Where is the lad?” you had asked Vorstag’s staring eyes.

You saw a reddish glow heading towards the house.  You waited, still rooted to the spot, knowing it was not him.  Gregor and his life-aura shambled up the path.  “Forgive me.”

“Where is he?”

“The young master.  I told him to run, hide…”

“The boy, Gregor.”

Your housecarl was overwhelmed, reluctant to tell you.  “Vorstag went down.  The child saw him fall.  He went into the house…”

You had made for the door, flung it open.

“No, Thane.  He is not there!”

You strode into the entry hall.

“Dragonborn, wait…”

You had stalked through the rooms, calling his name.  Chairs were overturned.  Personal effects were strewn about.  But your home was empty.

Outside, Gregor was kneeling next to Vorstag.  “Little one wanted to help.  He had something in his hand, he charged at the one that took down his father.”  Your steward took Vorstag’s discarded sword and laid it on his chest.

“Gregor, tell me.  Did they take him?”

His shoulders quaked and a sob left his lips.  “I tried to fight them off, take the young master back.”

“Which direction did they go?” 

Words were failing him, his grief too strong.  He had removed his battered cloak, then pointed East.  Gregor covered Vorstag with the cloth as best he could. 

“Steward, if you are able, make for Whiterun.  Inform the guard, seek help for your wounds.”

He nodded, tucking cloth under Vorstag’s head.  “Yes Thane.”

“How many escaped?”

“Three.  Not including…”

“I will see if I can track them.”

“Milady, Dragonborn…”  He had looked up at you, guilt wracking his face.  At the time, you were not moved, but you have since wished you had been kinder.

“Do as I command.”

He hung his head and closed his eyes.  “Of course.”

You had gone back into the house, quickly stocked up on supplies, found the most powerful sword they had not managed to steal.  As you exited, Masser came out from a cloud, illuminating the surrounding countryside with a ghostly blue.  You tightened your pack strap and started in the direction Gregor had indicated.  When you neared the edge of your property, you saw an object lying in the weeds.  You had bent down, tried to make out its identity in the moonlight.

Sandy-blond wood.  Dark blood on the end of it.  His toy sword.

That was the only other time you felt despair like this.  The terror of emptiness, of the all-consuming hole.  It was on the day you had watched the recruits in the yard with Aela.  The day you had openly disparaged your son.

You breathe in sharply, as if underwater for too long, and stutter-step closer to Molag Bal.  You hold your staff out in front of you and lean onto it.  Voice trembling, you say, “I never found him.”

“They were common bandits after your loot.  So arrogant, you thought you could keep it all?  Hoard everything?”

You bow your head.  “I failed.”

“Indeed you did, Mortal.  As did your weak husband.”  The Daedric Prince speaks with relish, taking sustenance from your suffering.  “The boy cried when they killed his father.  And yet still he tried to protect your  _ trinkets _ .  He wanted to please you.  He would have been spared, trivial creature, if he had not attacked the bandits with that plaything.”

A desperate voice shouts, “He lies, Soldier!  This is what he does.  Nothing but a terrible party trick.”

“The sword you gave him.  To shape him, mold him into you.  So vainglorious.”

“Torturing yourself won’t bring him back!”  The Doctor puts his hand on your shoulder, but you slap it away.

“Bal is right,” you say in a low voice.

“A mere child brought low because he needed to make you proud.”

You look up at Molag Bal’s sneering face, dozens of feet above you.  “What happened…” your voice breaks.   “…to my son?”

“Free me, Mortal, and I will give you the information you seek.”

You nod slightly.  “How?”

The Doctor speaks quietly now, no longer shouting.  He plants himself in between you and Bal.  “Dragonborn?”  His eyebrows arch up, and you register his dejected astonishment.

Though you do not hear anything, you feel a wave sweep past you.  Heat?  Magic?  A telepathic command?  You do not understand in a literal sense, but you feel compelled to turn around.  The pitchers on the pedestals now glow with a golden light.  Molag Bal has activated them.

“Destroy them,” he commands.

How many hours did you spend awake at night, wondering about your child’s fate?  How many times did you jump at every knock on the door, hoping it was your son returned?  How many miles did you travel, searching searching but never finding?  Had the bandits killed him?  Sold him?  Forced him to join their band, violently draining away his sweet, inquisitive nature until all that was left was a murderous brute?

Despite your reawakened grief, you hesitate.  The Dovah blood inside you is stubborn, fighting back the temptation.  Rah wahlaan tahrodiis.   _ (The Creator Gods are treacherous.) _

The Doctor scurries around and blocks your path, trying to protect the pedestals from you.  “I can’t let you do this!”

“Destroy the soul vessels and I will be free!  Destroy them and I will tell you about the boy who fought.  The boy who worshipped you.  The boy you ruined!”

You turn back to face Molag Bal.  Quick as you can, before your own mind betrays you, you lift up your staff.  From the gaping mouths carved into the top of the wood, a red glow begins to emanate.  You snarl, “Tell me something I don’t know.”  You flick the staff towards Molag Bal, and the red energy envelops the Daedric Prince.

A blinding flash.  You blink.  Out there, floating in the flames, sits a fluffy brown bunny.

The Doctor steps up next to you and tilts his head to the side.  “What?”

The rabbit’s nose twitches.

“Sheogorath sends his regards,” you say simply, and start hurrying back towards the pitchers.

“What?” repeats the Doctor.

“I have bought us only a few minutes before he changes back,” you say over your shoulder.  You get up to the pitcher on the right, relieved that it is still glowing despite Molag Bal’s transformed state.  “I got him to activate the soul vessels.”

The Doctor turns around and looks hard at you.  “I thought…I mean I really thought that you were…”

Your pride will not let you admit how tempted you were to give in.  “You are not the only one who sometimes has to play along to get what you want, eh  _ Amzamakai _ ?”

The Doctor slowly walks up to you, his expression open and inquisitive.  Clearly he expects you to say more about your son.  Instead, you point at the soul gems he left on the pedestal.  “These will not work.  Not powerful enough, and the soul vessels are not built for gems.”

He gets right near you, and you are uncomfortable.  You pick up the Daedric dagger and avoid his gaze.  “I have a feeling the portal will require a bit more sacrifice.”

“Soldier…”

“These pitchers require blood, living blood.”  You examine the end of the dagger, and contemplate where exactly on your body would be best to make an incision.

“What he said about your son…”

“A sacrifice.  An old-fashioned, Daedra-worshipping, blood-magic sacrifice.  Just like the ancestors used to do.”

“…He might still be alive, somewhere.  You can’t know for sure.”

You look up at the Doctor, false bravado in your voice.  “When I fall over, you have to make sure most of my blood goes into the pitcher.  That is the only way this works.  And then, if it is enough, the portal will open and you can step through.”

“The Beast lies.  He lied to me, to Rose, he lied to you.”

You thump the bottom of your staff on the ground.  “No, Doctor, he did not.  He told me the truth.  An exacting, terrible version of it, perhaps.  Who knows what facts he left out for his own ends.  But he told the truth.  My husband and son are gone, and it is my fault.  I have known this for decades.”

The Doctor shoves his hands in his pockets.  He looks unsure of what to say.

“I still hear them all, Doctor.  All my fellow travelers, my companions.  Everyone who fought by my side.  I saved a lot of people, but I let down too many.  The ones who mattered most.”  You hold up the dagger.  “Time to quiet the voices.  And you get to leave.”

“The voices?” the Doctor mutters.  His eyes dart back and forth between the dagger, the pitcher, and the soul gems.  He picks up a gem, and for some reason, licks it.  “I was a father.  Granddad, too.”  He holds the gem up to his ear.  “I wasn’t the best at it.”

You are surprised by this news.  He could be telling you a falsehood just to try to make you feel better, but his hardened expression makes you believe him.  “You wanted to be.”

He nods.  “I wanted…”  He takes out his sonic screwdriver and looks at it thoughtfully.  “…lots of things.  But I didn’t...  Gallifrey wasn’t…”  He shakes his head, then turns on the screwdriver.  “There were billions of children on my planet, in the end.”  He stops this line of thinking, forced briskness in his voice.  “So the voices are loud, eh?  In your head.  ‘Lok Thu’umme’ is what Neverwhatsit said to you.  Well, I got a couple chatting away too.”  

The soul gem in his hand cracks slightly, and a blue glow begins to escape from the fissure.  He jams the gem into the opening of the pitcher and the soul inside drains out, without completely destroying the gem in the process.  Before you can react, he pockets his screwdriver and snatches the dagger out of your hand.

“Let’s see if I can put some of ‘em to use!”  He brings the sharp end into his left hand and slashes it.

“Wait, Doctor no!”

He grabs onto the soul gem with his bloodied hand and lets the crimson liquid drip down the vessel.

You reach out to pull his hand away, but it is too late.  The golden light from within the pitcher grows and spills out.  It twists and twirls around the Doctor’s hand, then up his arm, to his chest.  He lets out a quick grunt, then breathes in sharply through his teeth.

“Doctor?”

“It stings, it…it’s not too bad.”  He looks at you, and apparently registers the immense concern on your face.  “Really Soldier.  I’m tougher than I look, it…”  A shaft of light shoots straight up from his hearts and he cries out.

You feel helpless, unsure if you should stop it.  “Doctor!”

The light grows in intensity, making you squint.  The Doctor struggles, takes out the screwdriver.  You grab his left arm and try to wrench it away from the soul gem.  “Wait!” he grunts.  “I need…to check…”  With great effort, he aims the screwdriver at the beam of light and turns it on.  “Just…a little more…” 

There is a loud rumble from the endless stone above you.  The ceiling shakes, the vibration loud enough to hurt your ears.  And then, seemingly out of nothing, a violet-white circle appears on the ground a few feet away from the Doctor.

“Now Soldier!”

You pull his arm away as hard as you can.  You both stagger backwards, and the beam of light immediately withdraws from his body.  It snakes back into the pitcher and illuminates the soul gem with a purple-gold cast.

He stares down the vessel like it insulted him.  “Next time, just order in a kebab.  Yeesh.”  He grasps his palm with his other hand to staunch the bleeding.

“What did you do?”

“Have you never had a kebab?  Oh you’re missing out.”  He bounds over to the circle on the ground and analyzes it with his screwdriver.  He voice is manic.  “I adjusted the gem so it would crack, but not break.”  He glances up at you.  “Dwemer could use some plastic.  Reuse, recycle…”  He fiddles with the screwdriver, and the sound warbles differently.  “Anyway, now the gem’s acting as a conductor.  Took  _ just _ enough of my energy to open the portal, and it will continue sucking away my life force to keep it open, yum yum yum, eating me bit by bit.  Apparently it thinks I’m delicious.  All until I can come back with the TARDIS and remove the gem.”  He smiles at you, and changes his voice to your accent.  “No need for that ‘old-fashioned blood sacrifice’ after all.”

You ignore his insulting imitation of you.  “Well then, let us make haste!”

He holds up his hand.  “Wait.  It…”  The screwdriver changes tone again, and he turns it off.  “It is only enough for one.  I miscalculated.”  He looks grimly back over at the soul vessel and flexes his cut hand.

You grab the other soul gem off the pedestal.  “Doctor?  Two gems, two pitchers?”

“I don’t think…”

“‘Lok Thu’umme.’  The voices in my head are immortal.  I could power one of these till the sun goes out.”

The end of your staff starts to glow red, and you spin around to face the precipice.  The rabbit flashes and Molag Bal is reinstated.  He howls in anger.  “Insolence!  I am the Deathless Prince!  God of Schemes!  Lord of…”

You roll your eyes.  “Oh honestly.”  You aim your staff and give it a few seconds to gather up magicka.  “Wabbajack!”

Another flash, and the Daedric Prince is reduced to a chicken.  The Doctor cocks his head again, but says nothing.

You hold up the soul gem.  “Shall we?”

The Doctor takes the gem and starts running his screwdriver over it.  You fetch the dagger and make your way over to the second soul vessel.  Busying yourself with the task of opening the portal is helping you take your mind off everything Molag Bal dredged up.  You typically have no problem keeping your emotions at bay, but this instance was unlike anything you had ever faced before.  You will deal with it all later, when you are out of danger.  And alone.  Mulalun hahdrim.  ( _ Ever-strong will. _ )

The Doctor tosses the cracked gem to you, a faint blue trail following its path in the air.  “Soul’d out,” you say with a smirk.  The Doctor blinks.  “Look, it is soul’d out!  The soul, is out, but as when you are at the market and they have run out of cabbage…”  The Doctor shakes his head at you.  “I do not know why you are the only one allowed to make jests.”

You place the soul gem into the opening of the pitcher. Choosing your left pinky finger, you dig the tip of the dagger into the flesh.  After a few moments, the blood begins to bead.  “Look Doctor, no need to slash your whole hand…”

You run the blooded finger over the soul gem, and the golden light comes over you as it did with the Doctor.  At first it seems like a passing pain, a prickling chill spreading over your body like when you come down with the Rattles.  The Doctor walks closer to you, aiming his screwdriver at the pitcher.  “I’ll pull you away when it’s ready.”  You nod.  “Brace yourself.”

In a flash, the light skewers you, propelling your life force from your chest up into the darkness.  You involuntarily try to pull your hand from the gem, but it is petrified like stone.  A bone-deep cold, the biting freeze of death in an instant, but there is no release of consciousness into oblivion.  Your staff falls away from your other hand, and you no longer register sound or sight.  Only this all-consuming disintegration of your energy, all the eternal Dovah souls inside you siphoning away but never depleting.  It is not merely the worst pain you’ve ever experienced, it is the Void made physical, and it is invading behind your eyes and under your tongue.  Perhaps you should have given into Molag Bal, destroyed the pitchers, let him free.  Anything would be better than this.

A soul should never be separated from body while the mind still yet functions.

You see Sovngarde.  Where all worthy warriors go when they die.  Are you dead?  Have you finally made it?  There are flowers and songs.  The Hall of Valor!  You see Vorstag at Shor’s table, swinging a mug.  He’s holding it out to you.  The long awaited reunion.  He puts his bear-like arms around you, pulls you in for a kiss.

You feel a yank.  Suction, ending the kiss before you were ready.  No, wait…

Legs, you have them again.  They are staggering, you fall over into the Doctor.  He has pulled you off the soul-gem, and now is helping you stay upright.  You are still here, in this cursed cave.

How did the Doctor stand that?  How did he have presence of mind to endure that torment and still make all those reckonings on his screwdriver?  You look up at him, struggling to have the energy for speech.  “You are…indeed…tougher than you look.”  He gently presses his lips together – knowing sympathy for what just happened.

The Doctor lets go of your arm.  You flex the hand that was gripping the gem.  It is not stone after all.  You are still here, still standing.  Only, slightly less of you than before.  Though you do not appear to have any visible injury, you sense that your energy is lower than usual.  Not sickly or dying, just…not quite right.

“You feel that, right?  Your life force is slowly draining to keep that open.”  The Doctor points at the newly opened second portal a few feet away.  “But don’t worry!  We’ll be back soon to close it.”

You scoop up your staff and eye the portal wearily.  “Do you know where we will end up on the other side?”

“Yeeees?”  His voice goes up in pitch.

You sigh.

“Listen, I did the best calibrations I could.  I’m fairly confident we won’t wind up inside a rock.”

You hook the Daedric dagger on your belt.  “Or under the sea?”

“Fairly confident.”  He smiles, then jogs over to his portal.  “Time to disappoint your man Neverwhat.”  He jumps in and disappears.

“It’s Nerevarine,” you say to no one.  You grip your staff tightly, then let yourself fall into the portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art by the wonderful ChloexBowie. For a wallpaper version of this image, check out her DeviantArt! http://chloexbowie.deviantart.com
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta in all of Earth, Nirn, and Gallifrey - LoupMalin. All mistakes and banal prose are mine.


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